


Let's Make a Deal

by EmbraceTheEccentric



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ACAB but I miss Daisy, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Hunt Avatar Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, M/M, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Martin Blackwood, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, finale prediction, he aint human i can tell you that, slight body horror, they need to suffer a bit first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26974168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmbraceTheEccentric/pseuds/EmbraceTheEccentric
Summary: "There was a shift in Jon’s mind. An evaluation, followed by a consideration, ultimately leading to a decision and an offer. Those thoughts that he knew were not his own swiftly returned, hopeful for a response.The Eye, dissatisfied and merciless, wished to make a deal with him."
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 46
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY so this is my first contribution to the TMA fandom and I figured I'd better post it sooner rather than later considering it's a bit of a prediction for what could potentially happen in the finale. I'm a huge fan of gods/deities/powerful entities having or acting with very human emotions and also I think Elias is gonna get vibe checked for being a bad servant so...I wrote this. Depending on how well it's received, I have a lot of other ideas so I may put it in a series.
> 
> This is technically canon divergent from ep 179 just because I've kept Daisy alive but everything else that's occurred up until the most recent episode (182) is still canon for this story.
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you all enjoy!

A low groan echoed out into the hall behind them as Jon and Martin slowly pushed open another set of large double doors. The touch of thick wood and iron felt just as cold beneath their hands as it had for the last dozen or so times they had carried out this same task. The doors swung open, carried now by the momentum of their own weight, to reveal a large chamber carved from stone.

Its design was reminiscent of a library, with unmarked volumes lining shelves which filled any bit of wall that wasn’t made of the large, floor to ceiling windows that allowed for an all-encompassing view of the world outside.

It was ever so slightly larger than the rooms they had encountered before it. They seemed to grow somewhat with every level they ascended, structured impossibly given the outward appearance of the Panopticon tower implied consistency in size all the way up. Something that _was_ consistent, however, was the fact that this room and every room before it was completely unoccupied.

“Empty again,” Martin groused, brushing away nonexistent dust from his hands. “How many rooms does this place have?”

“I swear this was supposed to be the top,” Jon mused, though he realized that judging the height of the tower from how it looked from the outside seemed to be less and less of an accurate gauge. “If we have to climb another set of stairs, I might just lose my mind.”

Jon wasn’t able to See much inside the Panopticon. He was still able to Know things and he knew he wasn’t completely cut off from the Eye like he had been at the Upton House, but anything surrounding Elias was a void for him. He and Martin had to go searching for their former employer the old-fashioned way and even with a lack of physical exhaustion, climbing staircase after staircase only to find more empty floors was beginning to weigh on them.

It didn’t help that they traversing it by themselves. Of course, they had traveled through much of the apocalypse with only each other for company and support, and Jon would trust his life with Martin a thousand times over. However, this was very clearly the final stretch of their journey, and right about now he was beginning to wish for a good climactic, storybook moment where the allies would swoop in to help the protagonists defeat the villain.

It was good that Basira had managed to draw Daisy out of her Hunt-drunk haze and force a little bit of humanity back into her. And truly, Jon was very grateful that they had gone off in search of Melanie and Georgie to make sure they were safe while Jon and Martin had continued on to the Panopticon. He could also respect, in some ways, Salesa’s desire to stay out of things and Annabelle would certainly be one of his _last_ choices for genuine assistance.

But he wouldn’t lie and say that any one of them _wouldn’t_ be a good asset to have in a fight.

Martin took a few steps into the room and slowly spun around, searching for anything that might help them track down Elias or let them know if they were getting any closer.

“Why do I get the feeling that we’re just walking into a trap.”

“We likely are,” Jon said as he followed Martin into the chamber. He ducked his head when Martin sent him a look that told him he was unamused. “Sorry, sorry.”

“A vote of confidence would be nice,” Martin told him before letting his tone shift to a playfully mocking rendition of Jon’s own. “ _Of course not_ , Martin. We’re perfectly safe. I have everything under control.”

“You want me to lie to you?” Jon questioned, raising a brow.

“No! I just…” Martin huffed and took a few steps towards Jon, reaching out for an embrace that Jon was more than happy to return. Jon tucked his face into the curve of Martin’s throat and heard him sigh. “Promise me something.” Jon let out a noncommittal noise to show he was listening. “Don’t do anything stupid when we find him.”

“Martin-”

“Don’t try and argue with me,” Martin pulled back to properly look at Jon’s face, though they kept ahold of one another. “I get it, there’s a lot on the line here. It’s not going to be _easy_ going against Elias…Jonah…whatever he calls himself.”

“Probably _His Majesty_ at this point,” Jon teased with a wry smile. Another unamused look from Martin forced the smile to drop. “Sorry.”

“You have a particularly nasty streak of putting yourself in danger for others and I just…I can’t lose you, Jon. I can’t…” Martin’s expression twisted into something that made Jon’s heart ache. “It’s selfish but I don’t want to be alone again.”

“It’s not selfish and you won’t be,” Jon swore, reaching up with both hands to cradle Martin’s face. “Not if I have a say in the matter.”

“Promise you’ll do everything you can to _not_ die,” Martin told him as he reached up to place his own hands over Jon’s.

“Only if you promise the same.”

Martin gave him a small smile and Jon felt, just as he had every time before, that Martin’s smile could very well be the answer to all of his problems. He stood on his toes to press their foreheads together and took a moment to enjoy the contact before they’d inevitably need to separate and continue on through the never-ending tower.

“Oh, what a touching moment.”

Jon’s head jerked back and he mourned the separation as he and Martin pulled away from one another to get a proper look at the source of the interruption.

Of course.

Elias had joined the party.

Jon wasn’t sure where he had come from and he wasn’t a huge fan of the fact that he hadn’t sensed him enter the room. He had no idea how long he had been there… _watching_.

As it turned out, Jon’s earlier joke about Elias using royal titles was probably less of a joke and more of a reality. The man rested upon a raised throne carved from the same dark stone that comprised the rest of the room, and _where had the throne come from_ because it certainly hadn’t been there when they first entered. Black silk robes adorned with golden eyes enveloped his form, draping over him like an oil slick. Crystals and fine metal laced around his fingers and hands and throat in a superfluous display of wealth and power, though they all paled in comparison to the crown of spiked gold that rested atop his head.

He sat with one leg slung carelessly over an arm of the throne while he leaned back and propped his face up with the opposite arm, resting his cheek against his fist as he gazed at Martin and Jon with a haughty, heavy-lidded stare.

Martin took a step forward, placing himself between Jon and Elias and _god_ why was Martin the one protecting _him_? Jon wanted Martin gone from this room, far away from Elias and tucked away somewhere _safe_ but instead he was placing himself between Jon and something that could very well be close to a deity at this point.

Elias grinned, malicious and smug, as he observed the protective display.

“I hate to ruin it, I really do, but my Archivist and I need to have a quick chat.”

Jon’s eyes twitched as a sense of disconnected ire flashed through his mind.

What was _that_?

The displeasure felt foreign, like he had been having a conversation with someone who _told_ him they were upset and he recognized the emotion but did not consider it his own. Did his surprise cause him to accidentally look into Martin’s mind and see his emotions, mistaking them for his own? 

Jon didn’t have very long to contemplate the possibility before Elias snapped his fingers and he felt Martin’s presence swiftly leave his side as some invisible force sent him flying back through the large double doors they had entered through.

“Martin!” Jon shouted, hand uselessly outstretched as if he could call him back.

Martin landed on the floor just past the entrance but thankfully seemed uninjured, quickly stumbling back onto his feet. Though as he began to make his way back towards the chamber, the doors swung shut in front of him, likely closed by the same force that had sent him flying back. Jon watched as his view of Martin was cut off and tried not to let the panic of not being able to see him overtake his senses.

“ _Elias, you bastard!_ ” Martin’s angry voice filtered in from the other side, muffled by the thick wood of the doors. “ _Let me in and face me like a man!”_

“Apologies, Martin,” Elias called out, tone wholly unapologetic. “I know you’re not all too fond of being _alone_ anymore but this is a matter best settled between me and my Archivist.”

There it was again.

A nagging twinge of irritation in Jon’s brain at hearing Elias…at hearing _Jonah’s_ possessive tone and claim of him. A part of him rationalized the annoyance, considered it normal to feel such a way. He did _not_ belong to Jonah, not to the man who had manipulated and deceived him and caused him to lose so much. How dare he claim ownership of the Archivist.

But another part of him recognized that these feelings were not entirely his own.

He did not belong to Jonah.

He belonged to the Eye.

The Archivist belonged to the Eye and the Eye was displeased and offended to hear someone else so brashly claim that which did not belong to them.

Jon did not feel anger or fear from the knowledge that he belonged to the Watcher. Perhaps he should have but instead he felt a strange sense of comfort and security in the idea that he was the Eye’s beloved Archivist, cherished and protected. As he considered this, a new swell of satisfaction bloomed in his mind which he now recognized as his patron’s contented emotions.

“I am _not_ your Archivist, Jonah,” Jon maintained as he spun back to face his former boss, more detached warmth spreading through his mind from the declaration. “If I were you, I’d watch what you say lest you anger the one you claim to serve.”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Jonah groaned with a roll of his eyes. “I molded you into what you are, Jon. The Archivist is practically a servant to _me_.”

Another twinge of displeasure.

“You claim too much power and authority,” Jon warned, prompting a scoff from Jonah. “A servant does not assume itself to be more than just that.”

“The Eye could not ask for a better servant. I reshaped the _world_ for it. I set out a banquet of fear for it to observe and feast upon.” Jonah swung his leg down to plant his feet firmly on the ground as he spread his arms wide in a grand gesture. His eyes shone with manic pride. “No one else has accomplished such a feat. _No one_ _else_ understood what caused their string of failures. Only I was able to complete a ritual and I _deserve_ the crown it has granted me.”

“That’s exactly the problem, we’ve never completed a ritual before and as it turns out, it’s actually not a _good thing_. It only seems successful now but its rewards are finite, even for the Entities.” Jon took a few steps forward, careful in his approach when he noticed Jonah tracking his movements. “An avatar of the End determined that the pool of fear that can be generated in each domain is limited. Eventually they’re going to have to take victims from different domains to refresh the pool.”

“So?” Jonah rose from his throne and began to make his way down towards Jon with lazy strides. “Let them squabble over resources. The Eye feeds off the collective fear observed in _every_ domain so it won’t be affected.”

“That’s not the only problem,” Jon reasoned. “Banks believes that no new humans are being created or born and considering the End is still _doing what it does best_ , then people are being removed from a closed system. Eventually the domain of death will collect the victims from every other domain and there will be _none_ _left_.” Jonah stopped less than a foot away from him and Jon swallowed back the tightness in his throat. “The world will be empty and with no one around to _feel_ _fear_...”

Jon felt a strike of suddenly realized panic lance through his mind as his patron, for the first time, considered the possibility of its own nonexistence. An entity of fear…experiencing fear. Jon would have laughed if the moment had allowed for it.

“A simple fix,” Jonah claimed, waving his hand as if he were batting away a bothersome gnat. “We’ll…figure out how to create new cohorts or…” He shrugged and gave a grin. “The End’s domain just…won’t be allowed any new victims.”

“There’s no way you can just cut them off,” Jon argued. “Even if you had the power to do that, it’d likely start a _war_. The Slaughter and the Hunt would certainly be in favor but that doesn’t _fix_ anything.”

“I’ll find a solution,” Jonah asserted, his eyes narrowing dangerously as Jon continued to argue with him.

“Face it.” Jon ignored the warning stare he was receiving and pressed on, still holding out hope that he could reason with him. If Jonah was so intent on claiming the Archivist as his own then maybe there was a possibility that he’d actually listen to him. “There is no balance in this new reality. There was balance before, or at least something we could manage to keep stable. The only option is to reverse the ritual and-”

“No!” Jon flinched, startled by the sudden wrath in Jonah’s voice. Whereas before he had been conversing with arrogant nonchalance lacing his tone and demeanor, now there was a tension in his form. He looked like more like a wounded animal that had been backed into a corner than the predator he seemed to want to be. “I have power here, _true_ power. I will not give that up just because of some other avatar’s half-baked _theories_.”

The irritation was back in Jon’s mind, compelling him to speak and defend.

“It is not _your_ power.” Jon reminded him. “The Eye will not thrive here. You’d be sacrificing your patron for a limited era of rule over a reality that is slowly _dying_. You need to reverse the-”

“ _Never!_ ”

There was a shift in Jon’s mind. An evaluation, followed by a consideration, ultimately leading to a decision and an offer. Suddenly a new option was revealed to him, like a chapter selection in a video game that you could only choose once you had completed the side quests first. Those thoughts that he knew were not his own swiftly returned, hopeful for a response.

The Eye, dissatisfied and merciless, wished to make a deal with him.

His patron hid nothing from its Archivist, completely transparent about what would happen if he accepted. As Jonah stood before him, paranoid and seething, promises of pain and everlasting servitude flooded Jon’s senses. But alongside them were promises of knowledge, of stability, of…of the safety of his Anchor.

Martin was going to kill him for this.

“Ceaseless Watcher…”

Jonah’s face fell, realization dawning in his features as Jon’s voice rang out with intention. He was not the only one with power in this new world and he certainly wasn’t the only one willing to use it.

“ _No_ ,” Jonah ground out.

“Turn your gaze upon this _False God_ ,” Jon’s lip curled into a sneer. “This former servant who has encroached upon your domain.”

“ _Stop_.”

“Know that he has deceived you and played the role of king and ruler of a world which should be yours and yours alone.”

“I haven’t…I-I wouldn’t-” Jonah stuttered, an impulsive plea that was dragged from his throat by some latent instinct for self-preservation.

“He who has hidden and lied and trapped and isolated and bled and killed and _deceived_ for only his benefit.”

“You can’t _do thi_ s _!_ ” The righteous anger had returned but this time, Jon did not flinch.

“Know that his eyes have witnessed much but that does not mean that the vessel must remain. Know that a more faithful servant will remain in his place, loyal and subservient to you. Know that your Archivist entreats you to close the door on this new world and open the door back to the old, back to an era of balance where fear thrived in perpetuity across a spectrum which you were ever witness to.”

Jonah reached out and grabbed Jon by the folds of his jacket, pulling him in so they were pressed against one another, chest to chest. Jon let himself be dragged, an assured sense of triumph settling over him and silencing any doubt or distress. Jonah could not hurt him, not now. All of the fury and desperation and hostility that burned in his eyes had become pointless.

“I have sacrificed _too much_ for a twitchy little _bastard_ of an archivist to tear it all down!”

Jon smiled, a pitiless thing.

“Ceaseless Watcher, your Archivist is here,” He announced, disgust and disappointment in his gaze as he stared down at Jonah. “ _Answer his call_.”

…

Pain.

Searing, excruciating agony that crawled its way through Jon’s veins and seeped into his bones and filled his lungs and consumed his brain. He felt as though he was being destroyed and reconfigured, all at once killed and reborn. He collapsed to his knees and let out an inhuman scream as his arms fell limp and useless to his sides. There was no stopping this, no action he could take that would curb the torment he was experiencing.

Thoughts and feelings and ideas and knowledge not his own filtered through his fractured mind as his psyche knit itself back together and unraveled simultaneously. Words of assurance and comfort were whispered into his ears, clear and decipherable even amidst the screams that echoed through the chamber.

_A necessary trial for your metamorphosis._

The voices declared.

_It will be brief. It will be temporary._

They promised.

_You will be perfect, my little Archivist._

It crooned, proud and possessive.

Jon knew, even with the suffering-induced haze that clouded his mind, that in the past he would always close his eyes during moments of pain. In this moment, he was not allowed such a reaction. His eyes remained wide open, watchful and observant as they drank in the sight that unfolded before him.

Jonah had stumbled back a few feet away and fallen to his knees as well, though he wasn’t screaming in pain. He was muttering. Panicked words of denial mixed with anger mixed with pleading tumbled from his mouth as he stared down at his hands. Jon could still see, even with the distance between them, that his hands were disappearing…disintegrating.

Bit by bit his skin and flesh flaked away and floated up into the air, kicked up like the dust of crumbled pages from an ancient tome. The fingers went first, then the hand, followed by the wrist and the arms and the legs until it crept up his torso and towards his throat and face and…

Oh, his _face_.

The delicious expression of unadulterated fear on his face was enough to almost make Jon forget about the pain.

For just a moment, Jon and Jonah met each other’s gazes as the decay crept closer and closer to the edges of Jonah’s eyes. Jon thought he could almost make out a melancholy acceptance in their depths before the flesh and bone around them were consumed and they dropped to the floor, no longer supported by the sockets of a skull.

Jon dropped as well, the pain and agony slowly ebbing away to leave him feeling exhausted and empty. He slumped to the floor, cold stone pressing against his cheek as he fought to keep his eyes open. But he was so tired and his eyes had been open for so long. He could rest them for just a moment, his patron would allow it.

He registered the sound of a door opening in the distance and a familiar voice calling out his name, desperation and concern lacing its tone. The voice meant safety and comfort and love and it wrapped Jon in a cocoon of warmth, anchoring him in place. The voice meant that he was secure now and could drift off in peace, sinking deeper and deeper into oblivion.

There was much work to be done, and the Archivist needed rest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos/comments/support on the first chapter of this thing! I have a lot more mapped out so hopefully ya'll like what I have planned.
> 
> Just a warning (and it's tagged as well) that there is some slight body horror in this chapter. It involves lacerations and blood but they're not heavily detailed.

Having to listen to Jon’s screams from the other side of the door nearly made Martin lose it. Helpless and unable to stop whatever was causing him to make such tormented sounds, he was forced to simply wait and breathe and _pray_ to whatever bastard power would hear him. By the time he was able to finally get the doors opened, the screams had already tapered off and he rushed in to find Jon collapsed on the floor, unconscious and alone.

Well, alone save for the pair of disembodied eyes laying on the floor beside him. Martin took one look at those eyes and decided he didn’t need to wonder where Elias had disappeared to. 

He crouched on the floor beside Jon’s unconscious body, calling out his name and forcing back panic when he received no response. As Martin gently pulled at Jon’s body to roll him onto his back, his mind finally registered the metallic scent of blood in the air in the same moment that he saw them.

Eyes.

Eyes everywhere. Crimson circles and arcs of varying sizes, carved deep into any exposed inch of Jon’s skin and as Martin shakily pulled a sleeve higher to expose one of his arms, he realized that they likely covered him everywhere. Blood oozed slowly from the gashes, thick and red, but Martin paid no mind to how it stained his hands as he searched Jon’s throat for a pulse. Relief flooded his heart and mind when he finally felt one, slow but surprisingly strong, and he let out a breath.

Martin let his eyes slip shut for just a moment in an attempt to gain some form of composure and think of what to do next when he felt something shift. His knees had been digging into cold, hard stone but now it suddenly felt as though they were pressing against a threadbare carpet.

Martin’s eyes snapped back open and he choked on a breath.

Across from him was not stone but rather the familiar, rough wood planks that made up the walls of Daisy’s safehouse. The room was silent and Martin let out a small and strangled cry of confusion as he looked around, taking in the undamaged state of the cabin. No broken glass littered the floor and no crawling _things_ masquerading as tea scuttled around in shadowed corners. Gone was the suffocating feeling of false security that had tricked them into staying there for so long before they had finally managed to escape it.

His gaze tore downwards and he let out a breath once he confirmed that Jon was also with him in the cabin, though he was still unconscious and bloody. An assessment of his own form showed that he was wearing his apocalypse gear but when he stumbled to his feet and towards the window, the apocalypse was not what he saw through its dusty glass panes.

Pulling back the curtain revealed a slightly cloudy sky with the sun hung slightly lower to the west, letting him know it was a bit later in the day. The rolling green hills of the Scottish Highlands stretched out before him, undisturbed save for the breeze that rustled the grass.

There were no voyeuristic eyes gazing back at them from above, no domains of fear in the near distance, no evidence of the Change that Jon had been manipulated into creating.

Martin let the curtain fall shut and slowly turned to look back at Jon who, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, seemed altogether dead to the world.

“Jon,” He asked aloud to fill the quiet space of the room, fully aware that he’d receive no response. “What did you do?”

Martin drew in a deep breath, knelt back down to reaffirm that Jon had a pulse, and took a moment to collect himself. The situation had changed and he didn’t have all of the details but he certainly couldn’t just stand around doing nothing simply because he was confused.

So, Martin moved, he acted.

It was almost like he _knew_ what he needed to do, knew what things would best help Jon even if they went against his instincts. Martin may have been an unwitting servant of the Eye but he’d never been allotted any sort of powers or abilities, certainly nothing anywhere close to what Jon was able to do. The Lonely allowed him to disappear as he pleased but that was no longer an Entity he wished to borrow any sort of power from.

It wasn’t as though he was able to know everything, just things relevant to caring for Jon. They were like little instincts that he somehow understood were being given to him like orders, whispered into his ears by silent voices. 

Martin knew he shouldn’t try to bring Jon to the hospital. They wouldn’t be able to do anything for him and he wasn’t in any real danger of succumbing to blood loss or any other medical emergency. Jon was breathing and at least had a pulse this time around so hopefully they wouldn’t need to call up _Oliver_ to draw him out of another weird death coma. 

Martin knew he could wipe away the blood from his wounds, clean and tend to the angry red cuts as they healed over, but he should avoid covering them with gauze or bandages. They should be left exposed as much as possible, allowed to breathe and to _see._

Martin knew that Jon would wake up soon, he just needed his rest. Martin tried to ignore how that knowledge seemed to be whispered with an edge of soft reassurance to it, like the silent voices were trying to offer him comfort.

He went through the motions of selfcare that he would do for himself on days where just getting out of bed was a herculean effort. He moved to the bathroom to start running a bath, always mindful of keeping Jon’s body within sight through the open door.

Martin took a moment to marvel, just as he had at Upton House, at the strange luxury of being able to feel warm water caress his skin again. The exhaustion and hunger weren’t hitting him as hard as they had when they encountered Salesa, but he could still recognize that those human responses had returned to him again, comfortably taking root.

He carefully stripped Jon of his apocalypse clothes, trying his best to rationalize the lack of consent involved with undressing an unconscious body. It wasn’t as if it was anything he hadn’t seen before. There was nothing that, during their interim period of peace before the Change, Jon hadn’t explicitly and happily _allowed_ him to see or touch or…it was just strange when Jon wasn’t awake and able to give permission.

Martin carried on, lifting Jon in a bridal carry and lowering him into the bath. Rust-colored swirls filled the water as Martin gently wiped the blood and dirt from his skin with a washcloth. He glanced up occasionally to see if Jon’s face ever twisted into a grimace of pain or discomfort, but it never shifted from his expression of simple rest. Martin could only hope his condition wasn’t anything similar to locked-in syndrome.

Once Jon seemed sufficiently clean, Martin drained the tub and patted him dry. Pressing the towel down and lifting it up thankfully left very little bloody residue on the cloth. He carefully dressed Jon in a set of soft flannels and set him up to rest on the bed, maneuvering the clothes and the blankets in ways that allowed for most of the eyes in his skin to…see.

Martin drew in another breath, held it, and released it.

He reached down to check Jon’s pulse again and gently brushed a graying strand of hair to the side before he moved to refill the tub and wipe away his own apocalypse grime. Martin was properly exhausted by the time he had cleaned up, gotten dressed, and given up on trying to clean the fresh blood stains they had left on Daisy’s carpet. He collapsed into bed beside Jon and wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps he was a little _too_ accustomed to what his life had become.

Martin probably should have given more of a reaction beyond a curious hum when he awoke the next morning to see glowing green eyes floating around Jon like a swarm of bees, but in his defense, it was quite early and it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing he had seen in recent times.

He reacted a bit more when the eyes noticed he had woken up and began to swarm him as well, more of them manifesting out of thin air to replace the ones that had left Jon’s side. Martin tensed and raised a hand that he just as quickly dropped, deciding he didn’t want to find out what would happen if he swatted at one of them. Instead he slowly eased out of bed, careful not to jostle Jon as he also didn’t wish to find out what would happen if he disturbed the thing the eyes were so clearly here for.

Martin hesitated, wondering if he should leave the room, but then decided he hated the idea of leaving Jon alone with them more than he feared their new guests. To be fair, they hadn’t hurt him or Jon yet, and they didn’t do much when he reached over to check Jon’s pulse.

Obviously, they were connected to the Eye, but patron or not, the gashes that covered Jon’s body clearly said that not every _gift_ of the Ceaseless Watcher would be a good one.

After a few more minutes of observation, Martin decided they didn’t seem to be a threat. They did little more than hover around Jon, surveying the marks carved into his skin and the subtle way his eyes shifted beneath his eyelids. Occasionally one or two would flit over to where Martin stood, drift close and judge him with their equivalent of a narrowed stare, before darting back over to Jon.

Martin decided Jon was sufficiently… _watched over_ , and felt comfortable leaving the bedroom in favor of the kitchen. The clock he passed in the living room told him it was already early afternoon so he should probably make something to eat but he hadn’t had a cup of tea since their stay at the Upton House. _That_ experience had been tinged with paranoia over Annabelle trying to drug them so he intended to enjoy this cup to the best of his ability, even despite the circumstances.

He had just barely managed to strike a match to light the burner when a knock sounded at the door, startling him into dropping it into the wet sink. He froze, watching as smoke rose from the extinguished match head, and listened for any other sounds. Who the hell would be knocking at their door? No one knew they were here, not even the people he briefly interacted with from the village knew the exact location of the safehouse.

He supposed it could be a passing traveler, stopping to ask for directions or a place to charge their phone, but then the knocks came again. They could hardly be considered polite knocks, violent and insistent would be a more accurate description, and Martin began to question the possibility of it being some passive wanderer.

There was no good view of the front entryway from any window so Martin couldn’t see who it was, and the knocking had become so unrelenting that he doubted he could just pretend no one was home to answer the door.

Slowly and quietly he reached down and opened the cabinet, pulling out a sauce pan that he knew was stored inside. Makeshift weapon in hand and tucked behind his back in case it was an innocent visitor, Martin made his way towards the door. The knocking was coming without pause at this point. For a brief moment as he gripped the handle, he wondered if it would be Helen on the other side. When he finally opened the door, he wondered if he was relieved or disappointed that it was not.

“ _Basira?”_

Basira dropped her fist with a huff, clearly displeased that she had to knock at the door for so long before receiving an answer. Daisy stood just behind her and immediately shouldered her way into the house once the door was opened. She snatched the pan from Martin’s hand as she passed and tossed it on the couch. Basira followed her in before Martin had a chance to say anything more.

“What did you _do?_ ” Basira questioned as Martin shut the door behind all of them.

“W-what?” Martin stuttered, mind reeling as it attempted to catch up with what had happened. “I uh, I don’t…”

“Where is he?” Basira aske as she craned her neck around, scanning the immediate area.

Daisy was silently pacing the living room, stopping every so often to pick up a pillow from the couch or a mug from the kitchen before replacing it to continue her patrol.

“Hey, woah just _wait_ a minute,” Martin pleaded.

Surprisingly, Daisy actually stopped her pacing. However, the calculating gaze that she and Basira now directed at Martin made him wish that her attention was back on the mug in the kitchen.

“Martin, everything’s been reset,” Basira stressed as she took hold of Martin’s shoulders to center his attention on her. “One minute the apocalypse is happening and then _woosh_ , everything back to normal.”

“Normal _how_?” Martin questioned, having not seen anything of the world past their view through the cabin windows.

“It’s like nothing ever happened,” Basira explained with a bewildered shrug as she released him. “Daisy and I had found Melanie and Georgie and we were all traveling together but then…it was like the world _tilted_ and I blacked out for a second and suddenly I was back in London, alone.” She took a phone out of her pocket and waved it in the air. “I was still covered in blood and wearing the same clothes but when I checked my phone it said it was the same day as when everything went to shit.”

“Same with us,” Martin shared, noting how Basira seemed relieved to hear it. “I closed my eyes for a second and then we were back here.”

“I checked the news reports and saw they closed the investigation on the Magnus Institute.” She told him as Daisy resumed her pacing in the background, though it was less erratic than it had been before. “Labeled it a terror attack and reported the two individuals behind it had been found dead.”

“Trevor and Julia?” Martin checked, receiving an affirmative nod from Basira in response.

“Aside from that, just a handful of injured staff. No word on Elias but if he was able to walk out of holding then he probably had enough dirt on people to have them just throw out the case.” She shrugged again and shook her head. “No one’s talking about an apocalypse or fear domains or _anything_. I tried calling you but…”

“No signal here,” Martin murmured as the realization set in that Basira and Daisy had driven around ten hours up to the safehouse just because they hadn’t been able to reach him over the phone.

“I called Georgie and Melanie on the drive up here. They’re both back in Georgie’s flat and they remember everything too.” Basira gestured towards her partner. “Daisy woke up in the woods somewhere-”

“Sorry, _what?_ ”

“I went full Hunter during the attack and then booked it so I hopefully wouldn’t _hurt anyone else_ ,” Daisy growled defensively, the first thing she had said since their arrival. “I was hunting in the area around my dumpsite trying to keep myself distracted when the Change happened.”

“H-how…how are you feeling _now?_ ” Martin checked, memories resurfacing in his mind of the monstrous form she had taken during the apocalypse before Basira had managed to talk her down.

Daisy stopped pacing again and stood still for a moment, expression set in a thoughtful frown as if she hadn’t taken a moment to think about how she felt until Martin had asked. Her eyes narrowed and she stared at a corner of the room, gaze unfocused and unseeing.

“Still…” She rolled her shoulders, neck cracking as the joints settled. Something was clearly trying to seep in and take root, but rather than having it weigh her down, Daisy looked as though she was shrugging it on like an old, familiar jacket. “Still figuring that out.”

“I…don’t know if I want you near Jon,” Martin confessed, flinching when Daisy’s gaze sharpened once more and fixed on him.

“I’m trying to be polite here. Notice how I’ve been waiting patiently and not walking around _my own safehouse_ ,” She ground out, spreading her arms wide to gesture at the room around her before she hooked a thumb back in the direction of the bedroom. “I can smell him just fine. I know he’s in the bedroom.” Her hands dropped and she looked Martin up and down as she took a step forward, prompting him to take a step back. “You’re not exactly much of a fight but we’re not _enemies_ , at least we don’t need to be so long as you stay reasonable.”

Martin suddenly realized why Daisy had him so on edge. She was an intimidating figure, sure, and he hadn’t always felt the _most_ comfortable around her in the past but this was…

The pacing, the touching, the defensive attitude. This was a predator returning to their territory only to find it had been invaded by trespassers. They had entered her space, left their scent and evidence of their presence, and now Martin had the gall to try and tell _her_ what she could and couldn’t do there?

Martin drew in a breath and his hand twitched, fingers instinctively reaching out to confirm the existence of a pulse to help calm his own racing heart. Daisy’s eyes tracked the movement and Martin repressed the urge to run.

She’d probably like it if he tried to run.

“Martin, we don’t want to hurt him,” Basira promised, cutting through the tense atmosphere. He glanced over to see a genuine expression of worry on her face. “We’re just trying to figure out what happened and we’re willing to bet it had something to do with him. Has he explained _anything_ to you?”

Martin blinked and huffed out a strangled laugh. Basira’s concerned frown deepened and she shared a look with Daisy. He chose not to respond verbally or even acknowledge the expressions on their faces that clearly said they believed he may have lost it. Instead Martin began walking towards the bedroom. After a moment he heard footsteps following behind him and by the time he had entered the room, Daisy and Basira were hovering right by his side.

He continued his silence, deciding to show rather than tell as he swept his arm out in the direction of the bed. The gesture directed all attention to the form lying upon it, one covered in slowly healing lacerations and surrounded by floating luminescent eyes.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Daisy choked out as she quickly reached under her jacket to pull out a pistol.

“What the hell are _those_ things?” Basira asked, frightened confusion in her voice as her partner aimed at the area where the cluster of eyes was the densest.

“ _Daisy,_ ” Martin begged as the eyes began to dart about erratically, the sound of static filling the air. “Daisy, lower your gun.”

“ _Martin_.”

“I-I know, I know they’re…they’re just here to protect Jon, I think,” Martin speculated.

“Martin, what _happened?”_ Daisy asked, reluctantly lowering her gun.

“I think Jon made a deal.” Martin watched as the eyes seemed to settle now that the weapon was lowered. He wondered if a bullet would even do anything to them before realizing they were likely more concerned that there was a gun pointed anywhere near Jon. “W-we found Elias. I was locked out of the room as soon as we did but I could still… _hear_ what was happening. Elias went power-crazy and Jon kept saying stuff about how the Eye wasn’t happy and how the Change wasn’t good because eventually there’d be no more victims so the Entities would fade.”

“ _What?”_ Daisy paused in the process of holstering her weapon, body suddenly tense.

Martin picked out the strange tinge of anxiety in her voice and questioned why it was there, what it was in response to. In the past she had been trying to ignore the call of the Hunt but perhaps the Change had amended her relationship with it. The call was no longer just bloodlust to her, it seemed to be her instinct. The idea of losing her patron had become upsetting rather than reassuring.

“The End was removing victims from a closed system,” Martin went on to explain. “Another, uh, avatar figured that out.”

“How the hell did he get _these?_ ” Basira had taken a step forward for a better look, her gaze not on the floating eyes but rather the ghastly wounds covering Jon’s skin.

“Elias was shouting more and getting angrier and then Jon sort of just went…silent for a bit?” Martin recalled. “Then when he started speaking again, he was using the same voice he’d use whenever he asked the Eye to kill the monsters we ran into. He said something about…the _false God_ and the _loyal Archivist_ a-and then…” Martin swallowed past the tightness in his throat, a telltale sign that he was in danger of crying. “Then the screaming started.”

“From Jon or Elias?”

“Just, um…just Jon. Though by the time I got in there…” Martin turned and rummaged through one of their suitcases he had dragged out of the closet, pulling out a towel-wrapped parcel. “Elias wasn’t doing all that great anyway.”

Martin unwound the towel to reveal an old mason jar he had washed out, two disembodied eyes sitting inside. He had put them in there the night prior, before he had started trying to wash out the bloodstains they had left on the floor. He didn’t like how…alive they still seemed to be and so he wrapped the jar up and stowed it away so he’d feel less watched.

Daisy took a step forward and peered into the jar as Martin held it aloft.

“ _Jesus Christ_. Are those…”

“We can only assume. The iris matches at least,” Martin said with a shrug. “Jon was already like that by the time I reached him. I started thinking about what to do and then… _poof_ , back in the safehouse. You guys know the rest.” He grimaced and began wrapping the jar back up. “I’ve just been…taking care of him best I can. Somehow, I just _know_ how to take care of him. I think it’s the Eye’s doing.”

“And the eyes?” Basira asked, gesturing towards the hovering clusters. “The floating ones, I mean.”

“Oh, they showed up this morning,” Martin told them. “Haven’t done much beyond watch Jon and sometimes watch me.” He glanced at Daisy, eyes darting down to look at where her pistol was holstered and partially covered by her jacket. “Not too sure how defensive they can be…”

“I’m not going to hurt Jon,” Daisy claimed with a roll of her eyes.

“You’re sure?” Martin asked, not bothering to mask the skepticism in his tone.

Daisy huffed out a breath and, as if to prove a point, took a careful step towards Jon with her hands raised in the air. The static began to build again as the eyes flitted around her, wary and judging after her previous display. Daisy pulled a face but allowed them to dart about, her posture remarkably still for someone so clearly irritated. After a moment, the eyes settled once more and returned to their stations around Jon. Daisy took another step forward and leaned over him, assessing the damage.

“The blood doesn’t call for him anymore,” Daisy explained. “The Archivist is off limits.” Her gaze shifted over and settled on Martin. “Same with his Anchor.”

“Anchor?”

“Anchors are just whatever you have a connection to, something that keeps you grounded and brings you back…helps you retain a bit of humanity even.” Daisy briefly glanced at Basira before turning back to Martin and waving a hand vaguely in the area just below her chest. “Don’t you remember him taking out his rib to-”

“Y-yes, yes and the rib didn’t _work_ but the recordings did so I thought the _statements_ were what anchored him,” Martin pointed out, thinking back to all of the tape recorders he had inexplicably decided to pile around the coffin.

“Anchors can change,” Daisy argued simply, as though the information was common knowledge. “Regardless, my instincts say…” She trailed off and looked back at Jon, her expression pinched and pensive. “I usually see things in one of three categories. Pack, prey, or other predators. You two…you fall outside of those categories now. You’re just…other.” Daisy shrugged, an uncertain motion that only served to remind Martin of how little they understood about all of this. “Off limits.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally able to bring in my spider wife and I love her
> 
> I also may be able to update this weekly, we'll see how long that lasts

“You’re _sure_ he shouldn’t be in a hospital right now?” Basira asked. “Those don’t look pretty.”

She was looking over Jon’s lacerations again, leaning in closer than Martin or the floating eyes were particularly comfortable with.

Daisy had stopped her pacing and posturing and finally taken a seat in a reading chair that had been pushed into a corner of the room. She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees and hands folded together before her as she stared off into the distance in silence.

“No, no a hospital wouldn’t be able to do anything for him,” Martin replied. “He just...needs rest.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know,” Martin shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried reaching out for a more concrete feeling concerning Jon’s care. “Not long, I don’t think, but I…I don’t know.” Still not grasping any information regarding time, he was instead given another answer, a thought tossed his way like a passing suggestion. “W-we’ll need statements, if you wouldn’t mind sending some once you get back.”

“For when he wakes up?” Basira guessed.

“And to read aloud to him while he sleeps,” Martin clarified. “It’s...I just know he needs them.”

“I guess I can do that. They’ll probably still consider me archive staff at the institute.” She walked over and leaned her head out of the bedroom, looking in the direction of the kitchen before she leaned back in. “You’ll need groceries and supplies too, right?”

“Right, um…” Martin silently cursed himself for overlooking those details. “I don’t want to leave Jon alone. I guess I could run to the village before you two leave, or maybe-”

“They’re not staying here.”

Daisy cut through Martin’s ramblings, her voice firm and measured in a way that made a chill run down his spine. Martin looked at Daisy whose gaze had shifted to focus on Jon. He looked back at Basira for interpretation but she was looking at her partner as well, expression showing she was just as confused.

“Daisy?”

“Listen, I get that this is _your_ safehouse but-”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Daisy interrupted Martin again as her attention finally shifted over to settle on him. She tilted her head, cracking her neck on each side, before rising from the chair. “Both of you should come back to London with us. You heard Basira, they closed the investigation so the police won’t be looking for you and Elias is...no longer a factor.”

“But why can’t we just...stay here for a bit?” Martin asked, voice growing quieter with every word.

He had grown used to the cabin, grown fond of it even. This cabin had been his and Jon’s small space away from the chaos and the hurt when they made the choice to run away together. It was where their feelings for one another, finally confessed and laid out, and been cultivated and explored and cherished. It was _not_ the same cabin of that Changed world, the thing that pretended to be safe and whispered sickly promises of comfort into their minds.

Why _couldn’t_ they stay there? What was so important back in London that they needed to leave? Jon was in a fragile state and they had been just fine when it was only the two of them and Martin knew how to care for him and-

“You should be around people who can help,” Daisy reasoned, her argument so relevant to his thoughts that Martin had to wonder for a moment if the Hunt bestowed any powers of intuition. “I’m sure you can take care of Jon but can you take care of yourself on top of it?” Martin refused to meet her perceptive gaze and Daisy let out a sigh. “If you’re back in London and not _ten hours away_ then it’d be easier for us to deliver statements and groceries to you and help watch over Jon so you can have a break. You said it yourself, you don’t know how long he’ll be asleep for.”

“That’s...strangely considerate of you,” Martin acknowledged, once again not bothering to hide his cynicism.

“It’d also be beneficial to be able to keep a closer eye on the Archivist considering he’s undergone changes that none of us know the exact details of yet,” Basira piped in with a shrug of her shoulders.

“There it is,” Martin muttered, validated in his skepticism.

Basira rolled her eyes and glanced at Jon again. Martin hated how he only now noticed that there was more than just confusion or worry in her eyes as she studied his sleeping form. There was a wariness, tinged with a brimming hostility that accompanied a tense readiness in her posture. Daisy may have been the one to pull a gun earlier but Basira had always been the more observant one, the one who _waited_ before she acted.

“Martin.” Martin begrudgingly took his eyes off of Basira and looked back at Daisy. He was surprised by the sincerity he saw in her expression as she held his gaze, serious and genuine. “I held a knife to this man’s throat and he still jumped into an artefact of the Buried just to drag my ass out of it.” She stressed her words, sounding almost desperate in her attempt to make Martin believe her. “I owe him a debt. I only want to start paying it back.”

Martin looked away, back towards Basira and then back towards Jon before finally closing his eyes and pulling in a deep breath.

“Fine.”

The whole ordeal went by faster than expected. Jon and Martin had gotten fairly comfortable in the safehouse during their time there so Martin figured it would take a while to collect all of their things. Daisy, however, seemed able to pick out every little thing that they had brought and collect it all as if she already knew where it would be. She knew what belonged there and what didn’t, what belonged to her and what didn’t.

Not an hour later they were packed away into the car that Daisy and Basira had driven up in with Jon carefully laid out in the backseat, his head resting on Martin’s lap. The floating eyes had been buzzing quite aggressively while Jon was being moved but now they had settled down along with the rest of the car, their passive static filling Martin’s ears to create an almost soothing murmur.

“Where will you be staying, Jon’s place or yours?” Daisy questioned as she pulled away from the cabin and started down the dirt road towards civilization.

“Mine would be best, probably,” Martin replied as he gently tugged and adjusted Jon’s clothes to expose more of his eyes. The floating ones seemed appreciative, rearranging themselves to hover closer to the wounds. “At least then I’ll know where everything is.”

“Why is he asleep anyway?” Basira questioned, turning around in the passenger seat to watch Martin toy with the fabric.

“I think it’s a bit like a cool down period?” Martin guessed. “Whatever deal he made with the Eye…it’s clearly changed him.”

“Like a reboot after you install updates in a computer,” Daisy suggested.

“I hate how good of an analogy that is.”

“He’s got a pulse, right?” Basira asked as she reached out with one hand to press two fingers against Jon’s throat. “He isn’t like how he was after the Unknowing?”

“Of course he has a pulse,” Martin scoffed, trying his best not to tense or protectively pull Jon away from Basira’s reach. “That was the first thing I checked when I…” Martin trailed off as Basira’s expression morphed into one of confusion. He watched her hand shift positions, fingers skimming along his throat and pressing down at different points. “Basira?”

She remained silent, instead leaning back further to reach Jon’s wrist. She encircled it with her hand, index and middle finger pressing against the inside of it just below his thumb as she kept her own thumb in the air. The car remained silent and Martin watched as her expression shifted slowly to one of uneasy acceptance until she released Jon’s wrist and leaned back, offering Martin a sympathetic glance before she turned to sit back in her seat.

“He’ll be okay, Martin.”

* * *

The ride back to London was a long and silent one, filled only with occasional idle chatter regarding anything but the current situation and static filled songs from the radio. The move from the car into his flat happened just as quickly as their move back at the cabin had, hindered only by the exhaustion set in each of their bodies from the drive. Daisy checked through his flat to search for signs of meddling or intrusion before leaving with Basira, the two promising to deliver statements and supplies the next morning.

They hadn’t been settled in for very long, only a couple of days, before there was a knocking at Martin’s door. This knock was much gentler than the one back at the cabin and it was done in a playful rhythm which told him it very likely couldn’t be Basira or Daisy. They had already dropped off their supplies and would have called ahead to say if they were stopping by.

Really, it was his own fault. He hadn’t been back in his flat for a good few weeks and even before they had left, his housekeeping skills had never exactly _thrived_ under the guidance of the Lonely.

That is to say, he should have done a better job dusting away the cobwebs.

“Annabelle,” Martin greeted, voice curt for the woman he had opened the door to see. “Heard we were back in London, did you?”

Annabelle smiled, a knowing smile that made Martin’s jaw clench.

The floral-print swing dress that she wore gave the allusion of joviality, puffed out playfully at the skirt by a petticoat. Her hands were kept behind her back, holding something hidden from view by the abundance of fabric. She looked dressed for a party but Martin felt as though she’d be just as content arriving at a funeral.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She swung her hands around to reveal a woven basket filled with pastries, jars of preserves, and other sweets. “I brought a gift basket.”

“Did you make those?”

“Hmm, if I say yes will you assume that there’s something wrong with them?” Annabelle asked with a quirk of her brow. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“Don’t be that way, Martin.” Her shoulders slumped theatrically as she pouted, the very picture of mock offense. “Do you honestly believe I’m here to bring harm to our little sleeping beauty?”

Martin tensed. Knowing they were back in London was one thing but knowing about Jon’s current state was a whole other issue. He began to wonder how she could have gotten that information so quickly before a spider dropped down from the threshold of his door, its descent slowed by a glistening thread as it lowered itself into Annabelle’s open and waiting palm. She cupped the spider lovingly and raised it, tilting her hand to allow the creature to crawl onto her head and squirm underneath the patchwork of web that covered the crack in her skull.

“You-”

“I don’t understand why anyone from the Beholding’s lot is wary of spiders,” Annabelle mused, her grin twisting into something impossibly more conceited. “We’ve got so many eyes, great for _watching_.”

“So, is that why you’re here?” Martin challenged. “The Archivist is asleep so now’s the time to target-”

“Martin, Martin, _Martin,_ ” Annabelle tutted, silencing his accusation. “Hush now, sweet boy. I’m only here for a bit of conversation. I’m sure you’re lacking answers and I only want to share what I’ve learned so far.” She raised the basket in her hands higher in offering. “Perhaps over tea? There’s rosemary shortbread in here that’d be lovely with some tea.”

Martin hesitated for just a moment before sighing and stepping to the side to let Annabelle in. She gave another delighted smile as she passed, humming a nonsense tune as she made her way towards the kitchen. Martin shut the door and followed after her.

What else could he do, turn her away? She was already keeping tabs on them and while he absolutely abhorred the idea of asking an Avatar of pure manipulation for _help_ , she likely did have information that he’d find quite useful.

He entered the kitchen just as his kettle began to whistle, water ready for their tea. He had put it on before Annabelle had even shown up at his door with the intention of only making a cup or two for himself. Something told him that she had timed her arrival for it purposefully and perfectly, already confident that he’d let her in.

Annabelle set the basket down on the little table in his kitchen and took a seat beside it. As she pulled out a sleeve of what he assumed were shortbread biscuits wrapped in muslin he noticed small, black shapes scurry out from inside the basket and quickly disappear into the darker corners and cracks in the room. Martin narrowed his eyes, displeased that Annabelle had brought more spiders into his home, but when she looked up and met his gaze, she merely gave an innocent smile in response.

“Why are you here, Annabelle?” Martin asked as he set a cup of tea down in front of her and took one of the other seats at the table.

“I told you that we’d meet again when you were feeling a bit more open-minded, didn’t I?”

“I’m still not interested in anything you have to say.”

“I’m afraid that you can no longer _afford_ to not be interested,” Annabelle told him as she picked up a biscuit from the now unwrapped parcel. “You’re a player in all of this, a _major_ one considering how close you are to the one who sparked this whole…oh, let’s call it a _renaissance_.”

“Renaissance?”

“The Entities are playing a different game now, Martin,” She explained, dipping her shortbread into the tea. After a moment and likely against better judgement, he picked one up as well. “Before it was every fear for itself but now…now they’ve seen the advantages of collaboration.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He questioned. “They’re working _together_ now?”

“There’s no separating the Entities. They feed into one another, benefiting each other even whilst they benefit themselves.” She fanned the fingers of her free hand out, wiggling them as she took a bite of her biscuit. “The feeling of loneliness in the pitch-black darkness. The satisfying slaughter at the end of a successful hunt. The slow corruption of flesh once the end has claimed it. Don’t you _see_ , Martin?” She pointed the other half of her shortbread in his direction, accentuating her point. “Trying to raise one above another is like trying to single out the best line of a poem. It may sound lovely on its own, but why sacrifice the whole piece for just a solitary stanza?”

“I don’t appreciate you using poetry to appeal to me,” He muttered as he took a bite of his own shortbread, immediately irritated with the fact that it tasted quite delicious.

“So, I’ve appealed to you then?” Annabelle asked, looking quite pleased with herself as she finished off the rest of her own treat.

“What does all of this have to do with me feeling more open-minded?”

“Collaboration requires cooperation, doesn’t it?” Annabelle mused. “Amity is the objective here but we still need to put in the effort of maintaining it. I expect we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from here on out.” She gestured towards the gift basket and the makeshift tea party they had put together. Martin noticed there was also a bag of gummy candies that were made to look like eyeballs tucked into the basket. “This was my way of getting the ball rolling and extending an olive branch of sorts.”

“Shouldn’t you be dealing with the Archivist though?” Martin questioned. “Once he wakes up, I mean. He’s the Eye’s Avatar-”

“You sell yourself too short,” Annabelle chided. “Like I said, you’re a major player now. The others will be more likely to make contact now and I just want to be sure that _you_ know that the Mother is always here for you, Martin.”

Martin spluttered, choking on the sip of tea he had just taken. Annabelle appeared entirely too amused by the display.

“H-hold on, what do you mean by _others_?”

“Avatars, servants…victims.” She picked up her tea, staring at him over the brim of the mug with curious eyes. “You’re a particularly interesting case. You were aligned with more than one Entity. Not just anyone can manage that.”

“I’m not aligned with the Lonely anymore.”

“Right, which means there’s a vacancy now, doesn’t it?” Annabelle acknowledged. Martin’s eyes widened as he processed her suggestion and Annabelle clicked her tongue. “Don’t worry too much about it. I only wanted to let you know that you may be receiving a sales pitch or two, and from more than just little old me.” She grinned and looked him up and down, her gaze hungry. “The Archivist’s Anchor would be a mighty fine thing to have on your side.”

“So…what?” Martin asked, voice shakier than it had been before. “I should expect to have homicidal mannequins o-or cultists made of wax vying for my attention now?”

“Oh, no, no, _no._ Things will be much safer going forward…at least…safer than they were _before_. Our patrons have spoken, there are new rules. No more rituals and much less infighting if we can help it.” Annabelle shrugged. “Not that the Web ever attempted rituals before. We like the world as it is, thank you very much.”

“I thought…I was told that there were no hard-and-fast rules,” Martin pointed out, hanging on to the wording she had used. “The Entities are tied to emotions and intuition but no one can be sure about _exactly_ what they want. They don’t _speak_ to us.”

“Did you hear that from Fairchild?” Annabelle questioned, her lip curling into a disgusted sneer. “Not a fan of him. He’s so vague and…open-ended.”

“Oh, like _you_ give straight answers to _anyone,_ ” Martin accused, sighing when Annabelle appeared more flattered than offended by the allegation.

“Our patrons _are_ bound up in emotion, of course. Their very existence is sustained by the fear of living things. But as for _interpreting_ those emotions…it’s not as difficult as you might think, at least not for a proper Avatar.” She placed both of her hands on her chest, one over the other just above where her heart was, or potentially wasn’t, beating. “You know what your patron wants because it becomes what _you_ want. Your desires, your motivations, your instinct…so long as you can recognize your own needs then you should be able to figure out what your _patron_ needs.”

“Daisy said her instincts were telling her that the Archivist was off limits.”

“Good example from the little puppy!” Annabelle commended and Martin made a mental note to avoid having Daisy and Annabelle ever meet. “The name of the game is _balance_. Feed your patron, feed some others while you’re at it, but don’t get greedy or you’ll ruin the fun for everyone.”

“Why…” Martin sighed, finally accepting that he _did_ want to speak more with Annabelle despite her fondness for twisting whatever he said to expose some potential deeper meaning. “Why doesn’t anyone remember the Change? You and I remember it, but-”

“Servants and Avatars, yes,” She confirmed. “Really anyone who was aware enough of the existence of the Entities beforehand.”

“Why just us?” Martin asked. “Wouldn’t the Entities want people to remember what happened, to be afraid of it? It’s almost as if the Change was for nothing.”

“There’d be very little benefit to having normal people remember the Change,” Annabelle explained as she swirled her cooling tea with another biscuit. “If anything, there’d be problems with it. They’d start to question the supernatural occurrences around them rather than just fear them. They’d start to figure things out, come to terms with it all. They experienced the worst of it in those domains. Returning to a world where things aren’t as intensified would be…lackluster.”

“I suppose.”

“And it wasn’t _all_ for nothing,” She argued. “The Eye’s a fairly passive Entity but it’s not one to shy away from an opportunity.” Annabelle fell quiet as though that were explanation enough until Martin raised a brow, prompting her to roll her eyes like the act of explaining more was an immense task for her. “It wouldn’t be quite accurate to say everyone has _completely_ forgotten about the Change. From what I’ve noticed, for many it seems to be lingering like a bad dream, one that’s too… _muddled_ to form a complete picture. They don’t want to discuss or think about it for too long, and so connections are never made but the residual fear they experienced in each domain remains.”

“The Eye left them with bad dreams?” Martin drawled, unconvinced as he figured the Eye would do much more considering it had given up a world tailored to its own brand of fear.

“The Eye left them with trauma they can’t explain,” Annabelle clarified. “And where did people tend to go when they experienced things they couldn’t explain?”

Martin blinked before letting out a breath, his eyes slipping shut as he realized where this was going.

“To give a statement.”

He opened his eyes to see Annabelle smiling again and _god_ was she ever _not_ smiling? This grin was tinged with something he was hesitant to call pride, a strange sort of delight over the fact that Martin was keeping up with what she was telling him.

“And afterwards the Archivist will stroll through their nightmares, feeding his patron as he passively observes them relive their torment over and over again.” Annabelle wiggled her fingers again, excitement and childish glee in her movements. “Giving their statement forces them to reexperience that fear each night, continuously feeding whichever Entity victimized them to begin with.”

“Giving statements feeds the other Entities,” Martin pieced together. “And the other Entities are the reason most people give statements in the first place.”

“Collaboration,” Annabelle summarized as she threaded the fingers of her hands together, locking them in as one unit that she rested her chin down upon. She gazed at Martin with a heavy-lidded stare that exuded contentment. “It was always meant to be.”

“Did you know this was going to happen?” Martin questioned, once again hanging on her choice of words. “Did you…did you _plan_ for this to happen?”

“Hm…what an interesting thought,” Annabelle mused, quickly standing before Martin had a chance to respond. “Thank you for the tea, Martin. Do give my best to Jon when he wakes up.”

“You-” He cut himself off and huffed out a sigh, already aware that he’d be getting nothing more out of her. “I…don’t know why I ever bother with you.”

“Perhaps you’ll see the merit in a bit of ambiguity one of these days,” Annabelle suggested, tossing the words over her shoulder as she turned to make her way towards the door. “And what a day that will be.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU get an Avatar and YOU get an Avatar!
> 
> EVERYONE GETS AN AVATAR!!!

One morning, Martin’s front door was yellow.

He stared at it for a moment before moving on towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Not long after, he heard a telltale creaking and footsteps that echoed impossibly coming from the other room. The sounds moved towards the kitchen and a disorientating ringing began to fill his ears while the taste of metal crept along the back of his throat.

“Good morning, Helen,” Martin greeted without turning around, yawning away the sleep in his voice. “Are you the Avatar visit for today then? Annabelle warned me that I should expect more.”

“Well don’t sound _too_ excited to see me. Would you rather have someone else come for a visit?” Martin set the kettle on the stove to heat up before finally turning to see Helen leaning against the threshold, body draped leisurely while still appearing contorted and angular. “Simon Fairchild, perhaps, or maybe Alfred Grifter could give you a private show. I’d be more than happy to track one of them down and bring them here through my door.”

“I’d prefer Grifter if those are my only two options,” Martin replied, turning back to drop some bread in the toaster.

So, sue him, he had been enjoying the preserves that Annabelle had put in the gift basket. Spiders be damned, the peach one made him _actually_ enjoy peaches again after they had been soured by his experience hiding from Jane Prentiss. Honestly, if the Mother of Puppets had been more interested in baking and less interested in subtle and uncontrollable manipulation then maybe he’d be more inclined to join.

“You’d prefer the murder musician over the chaotic evil sky grandpa?” Helen questioned as she detached herself from the threshold and began wandering around Martin’s small kitchen, skimming her elongated fingers across various items.

“Alfred Grifter never threatened to throw me off a rollercoaster.”

“Hm, maybe there _is_ a bit of Slaughter in you,” Helen mused, tapping her fingers against the handles of the knives resting in the block on his counter as if to suggest that his possession of them added credibility to her argument. “Makes sense with how much you encouraged Jon’s murder spree back in the apocalypse. I was hoping for Spiral but I’m sure we can coax that out in time.”

“Oh, come _on._ Don’t tell me you’re on the recruitment train too,” Martin groaned as the water came to a boil and his toast popped up in their slots.

“Always have been, sweetheart,” She confessed with a wink. “You’d make a lovely coworker.”

“No, thank you.”

Martin left the kitchen with his breakfast and headed towards the living room, multilayered laughter echoing behind him as Helen followed after.

“Worth a shot.” She did a slow spin around in his living room as he took a seat on the couch. Martin wondered if her curious observations were a bit of Helen’s instinct as a real estate agent slipping through the cracks. “If Jon had been just a _little_ more like the archivist before him, you could have _been_ me. Wouldn’t that have been fun?”

“Is that all you’re here for?” Martin asked, taking a bite of toast as Helen finally refocused her attention on him. “Lazy attempts at convincing me to serve the Spiral?”

“I’ve already told you, Martin. I’d like it if we could be _friends_.” She took a seat in his arm chair. The cushions seemed to warp around her. “Isn’t this what friends do? Check in on one another?”

“Fine then,” He allowed with a wave of his hand. “Do your check in.”

“Right.” She squared her shoulders and reached out a hand, curling it into a fist and pointing one long index finger towards the center of his face. He went cross-eyed trying to follow and felt like the room tilted ever so slightly the more he tried to focus on it. “You are well?”

“Sure.”

“Lovely.” Helen’s hand twisted in a way that normal bones and muscles would not allow to point at Martin’s bedroom door. “And Jon, he’s been eating?”

“E-eating…well, if you mean the statements, I’ve been reading some to him,” He told her, gesturing towards a file box that sat on the floor next to the coffee table. “We’ve got another stack of them for when he wakes up too.”

“Well, yes, those should do for _now_.” Helen rolled her eyes and they realigned with different colored irises. “But once he wakes up, you must be sure he has a _proper_ meal.”

“A proper…meal?”

“Those statements are just barely _sufficient_ and the Archivist is a growing boy,” Helen remarked with an accentuating clap of her hands. “He’ll need some fresh, _live_ accounts of the terrors people have witnessed. Maybe even some compulsion practice while he’s at it, stretch his legs a bit.”

“Jon’s _fine_ sticking with the written statements,” Martin ground out with a particularly violent bite of his toast. “Live statements can be much more…distressing for the statement giver. It’s better to go with older ones where there’s less of a chance that the person will have to suffer much from it.”

Helen grew suspiciously quiet as Martin continued to angrily pick at his breakfast. After a sip of tea, he finally looked over at her, expecting some sort of toothy grin or arrogant gaze that seemed commonplace for the Avatars who he had the pleasure of interacting with. Instead she seemed thoughtful, bordering on uncomfortable, like this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have but it was going to be had regardless.

“Helen…struggled in the beginning,” She finally spoke and the gravity of her tone made Martin pause. “It bothered her to feed. She wasn’t quite ready for it yet and taking people still upset her as it would have before she became me.” She held up her hand, regarding the unnatural joints and length with awe in her expression. “I am able to exist as Helen now because we were finally able to shed all those nasty bits of humanity that were making her feel guilty.” She dropped the hand and looked back at Martin. “If that hadn’t been done…Helen would have starved.”

Martin narrowed his eyes.

“What are you getting at?”

“You can’t allow Jon to feel guilty for surviving,” Helen told him, sounding very much like an adult scolding a child. “He’ll have enough trouble as it is getting used to things without worrying about what others think. Your archival gang basically forced him into an eating disorder once already. He won’t _survive_ something like that again, not with how he is now.”

“What does it matter if he feels guilty, hm?” Martin asked, defensive venom lacing his voice. “Maybe he _should_. People are supposed to feel guilty when they hurt others.”

“ _People_ are supposed to feel guilty,” Helen replied, unfazed by the hostility as she remained more level than an Avatar of the Spiral had any right to be. There was disappointment in her tone and Martin felt it carve into him like a hot brand. “How long is it going to take for you to understand that Jon doesn’t fall under that umbrella anymore.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“ _Martin_ …” The disappointment was shifting into pity. “That thing lying in your bed is as much Jonathon Sims as I am Helen Richardson. He is as much the Archivist as I am the Distortion and as much an instrument of the Eye as I am for the Spiral.”

Martin pushed his plate away, appetite long gone, and dragged both hands across his face with a groan. When he looked back at Helen, she was observing him with something akin to building satisfaction, likely in response to the conflict that no doubt shone in his features. The Spiral lied and deceived but to see someone so blatantly lying to themself, denying and rejecting, was surely a feast.

“But he’s not some…some _creature_. He’s still…”

He trailed off, words useless in convincing Helen or himself of what was or wasn’t true anymore. He wasn’t even sure he believed half of the things coming out of his mouth and the sympathy in Helen’s gaze was beginning to look far too human for something that had supposedly long since abandoned its humanity.

Helen sighed, a sound that resonated like feedback from an amp and made Martin flinch ever so slightly. She stood and made her way towards her door, pausing only to look back once more.

“Take comfort in the fact that those people giving their statements get to walk away after all is said and done,” Helen reasoned, her yellow door swinging open on its own with a horrid creak to expose glimpses of a swirling hallway. “When people enter through _my_ door, they don’t usually get to _leave_.”

* * *

Helen left by noon but her short visit had left Martin with a creeping migraine, one that he dealt with by retiring for a short nap in the dark after he checked on Jon. He occasionally felt too anxious to fall asleep with Jon being in the state that he was, but the presence of the floating eyes had gradually assured him that he was well observed even when Martin wasn’t able to do it.

When he awoke, sunlight was no longer trying to trickle in through the curtains covering his windows. Martin checked the clock by his bed with bleary eyes only to discover he had been asleep for hours and it was now evening, just past when he’d normally eat dinner. He wasn’t hungry but he lamented the fact that after napping for so long, he’d likely not be able to sleep well that night.

With his sleep schedule disrupted, he dragged himself out of bed. Passing by the coffee table and the file box beside it reminded him that he should probably read another statement to Jon. Thinking about it forced Helen’s words through his mind, taunting him and questioning his ability to properly care for the person he loved. The Eye hadn’t given him any instructions on live statements but perhaps that was because it would only become relevant after Jon woke up.

He’d be able to seek out his own meals once that happened.

Martin shook his head, aggressively rubbing at his eyes as he tried to force away the elephant in the room that would eventually need addressing. He blinked and dropped his hands, seeing spots from the pressure.

He was just starting to contemplate whether rubbing at one’s eyes annoyed the Beholding when there was a knock at his door, its wood no longer an eye-straining yellow. He didn’t bother questioning why someone would be visiting this late at night and just answered the door, common sense shoved to the side as he greeted the face on the other side.

It was not a face he had seen in person before but there were enough clues to piece together who it belonged to.

Inky black lines crawled along his throat where his veins lay, stopping their ascent just below his chin. Dark circles were stamped underneath his eyes, evidence of a perpetual lack of proper rest, but they did nothing to diminish the objective beauty of the rest of his face. His eyes expressed a vast array of emotions, all at once worried and hopeful and grieving and sympathetic.

“Shall I prepare spots at the dinner table for _every_ Avatar or just the ones with a vested interest in the Archivist?” Martin muttered, lightly thumping his head against the threshold as he leaned against it.

“I suspect we all have a vested interest in him at this point,” Oliver Banks replied in a thoughtful tone. His lips turned down into a frown and a new emotion, something edging towards nervousness, joined the others in his gaze. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met yet. Have I already managed to upset you somehow?”

“Y-you…” Martin sighed and stepped to the side. Helen had already made him reach his limit for lying. “Do you drink tea?”

“When it’s offered,” Oliver replied, stepping into Martin’s flat with a quiet murmur of thanks. “You have a lovely home.”

“Sure,” Martin said, closing the door behind him. He turned to see Oliver staring at the door to his bedroom and his eye twitched. “You aren’t…here to do whatever it was you did back in the hospital, are you?”

“I didn’t really do much, to be fair,” Oliver claimed, turning away to look back at Martin. “I only gave a statement so Jon could hear his choices.”

“Yeah but you were the only one who actually got _through_ to him,” Martin argued as he moved to refill the kettle and set it on the stove. He eyed the mostly full bottle of gin sitting on his top shelf and contemplated how well it could pair with the chamomile he pulled from the cabinet. “He didn’t seem to hear m-…hear the rest of us.”

“Is _that_ how I’ve upset you?”

Martin turned, leveling a stare at the Avatar before him. Oliver did not seem amused by Martin’s frustrations, he hardly even seemed pleased by it. There was genuine concern in his ever-saddened gaze, an expression of disquiet over the possibility that he had insulted someone before even stepping through the door.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Martin replied simply, turning back towards the kettle as it began to whistle.

“That wasn’t…that wouldn’t really apply here,” Oliver explained. He took a hesitant step into Martin’s small kitchen area, pausing as if to test whether or not he was unwelcome and would be sent back out. When Martin did nothing but begin to fill their mugs, he stepped further in and took a seat at the small table, the same chair where Annabelle had sat. “The End only holds sway in those still in possession of their humanity. Jon already made his decision to abandon that when he awoke the first time.”

“Are you saying he’s no longer human?” Martin asked, his tone already unapologetically defensive.

He brought over the tea and took his own seat at the table. Oliver was looking over the treats that remained in Annabelle’s gift basket, smiling slightly when he noticed the bag of gummy candies shaped like eyes.

“Not in the way that matters to The Coming End That Waits For All And Cannot Be Ignored.”

“Your patron needs a shorter title,” Martin muttered as he took a sip of tea.

“What defines humanity anyway?” Oliver turned and, as if he had just noticed that tea had been set in front of him, quickly murmured another quiet thank you. He placed his hands around the mug, appearing to soak in the warmth in favor of taking a sip. “The End has its own considerations, of course, but just because something lacks a beating heart or air in its lungs doesn’t mean it can’t think or need rest or express empathy.”

Martin paused. He had not thought that an Avatar of the End would carry such a blasé set of requirements for life and humanity. He somewhat appreciated Oliver’s words as they, in some strange way, offered comfort in the face of the turmoil Martin had been left with following Helen’s morning visit.

“You said that Jon already made his decision,” Martin acknowledged. He pulled out a wrapped parcel of scones from the basket and set it out on the table and Oliver gave a look of delighted surprised in response. “By the End’s standards, how long has he not been in possession of his humanity?”

“The End had taken all that it could from Jonathon Sims back in that hospital once he made his choice to wake up,” Oliver claimed as he picked up a scone and broke off a piece. “All that remains now belongs to the Eye. It’s no longer something that can die, not in the conventional sense at least.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, everything can die eventually in _some_ way, I suppose,” Oliver proposed with a considering tilt of his head. “Ideas can die if they’re not discussed. The memories of things will die if they aren’t remembered. One day, even our patrons will fade with no one around to fear them. Every living thing and every Entity eventually belonging to the End until finally the End too would cease to exist. To put it simply…an extinction.”

“Extinction?” Martin repeated and groaned when Oliver nodded his head. “ _Christ_.” Memories of Peter’s warnings and worries over an emerging fifteenth power flooded his mind, only overshadowed by a sudden thought that had Martin drawing in a sharp breath. The action seemed to startle Oliver who dropped the bit of scone he was about to eat. “B-but wait, I thought the Eye reversed the ritual to _avoid.._.”

“It will still happen, just not for a good long while. To assume that it won’t is to assume that there will _always_ be living creatures capable of fear which is a…dreadfully naïve thought.” Oliver frowned and picked up the piece of scone he had dropped, brushing the crumbs he had created into a neat pile on the table’s surface. “The Changed world would have accelerated the process, sure, and while the End is rather indifferent to the speed of things so long as it’s not cheated…” He shrugged. “I figured I would at least share the information with Jon.”

“Alright… _good_ , I guess.” Martin narrowed his eyes. “How did you know to come here?”

“Oh! I uh…I saw Jon in a dream, actually,” Oliver told him, perking up as he cheerfully shared the news.

Martin blinked.

“Come again?”

“We can apparently run into each other in dreams that overlap,” Oliver explained. He held his hands together, interlocking his fingers like two pieces of a puzzle fitting together. “It’s a little difficult to explain. It’s sort of like…domains intersecting? He’s a passive watcher in the nightmares of statement givers and occasionally the tendrils can lead me to one of his victims.”

“Don’t call them victims.”

Oliver tensed, caught off guard by the sudden cold hostility in Martin’s voice. He slowly dropped his hands from where they were held aloft for his visual demonstration and wrapped them around his mug of tea, finally taking a sip. Martin kept his expression neutral but held no regrets for the harsh delivery of his request.

“One statement giver had been marked by the End but their death hadn’t been imminent until quite recently,” Oliver continued. “Conveniently, Jon was observing this… _individual_ at the same time I decided to check up on them.”

“So, you saw him. Were the two of you able to speak?” Martin asked.

“I waited while he watched the experience play out. Figured I ought to let him get a full meal out of it for the Eye since the lady would belong to the End soon.” Martin shot him a look of warning and Oliver cleared his throat. “He was surprised to see me at first but then we talked about _why_ I was able to be there and he seemed…pleased to earn a new bit of information.” He nodded his head towards Martin. “Then he asked me to check up on you. That’s why I’m here.”

“He…”

“Jon knows what’s been going on out here, at least in the immediate sphere around his body.” Oliver’s gaze shifted away from Martin and he held up a finger to point at something. Martin glanced over his shoulder in the same direction to see a spectral eye floating just behind his shoulder, watchful and observant. Upon being spotted the eye quickly blinked out of existence and Martin turned back around when he heard an amused chuckle come from Oliver. “Probably because of those. He said he can see everything, just can’t wake up and react to it. He wanted to make sure you were doing okay...make sure that you weren’t feeling too lonely.” He gave Martin a nervous smile, preparing for more irritation to be sent his way in response. “So, Martin, seems like a stupid question but _are_ you doing okay?”

“I…yeah? Best I can be given the circumstances I suppose.” Martin sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, mussing up the already bedraggled curls. “I just, you know, I uh…I want him b-back and…” He dropped his hands and shook his head. “I just want him back.”

Oliver was silent for a moment and looked quite pensive as he stared down at his tea, as if he were trying to decide whether or not he wanted to say something. Martin expected more commentary on humanity or perhaps the same warnings Helen had given him about treating Jon more like the Avatar that he was. They were all so nonchalant about their positions and their responsibilities, all acting like they knew what was best for the Archivist and that Martin couldn’t possibly understand the intricacies-

“You two…your relationship is really nice, you know?” Oliver told him, his voice soft and nostalgic. Martin’s eyes widened slightly and Oliver looked up, a small smile on his face. “Things get tough but you just get closer, support each other through it. I wish I had had that sort of resilience with Graham but…well, maybe it’s for the best that my breakdown caused us to split.” His smile turned bittersweet and he shrugged. “I can’t imagine it’s easy to love something inhuman.”

“Well…” Martin swallowed past the tightness in his throat and returned Oliver’s smile. “How important is it to be human these days anyway?”

Oliver huffed out a laugh and shook his head before checking the watch on his wrist. With his sleep schedule off, Martin wasn’t able to guess how late it had become.

“I should get going and leave you be. Thank you for the tea.” Oliver rose from the table and brushed his small pile of crumbs onto his palm, dumping it into the sink before he moved to leave. “And apologies again for upsetting you before we even had a chance to meet.”

“It’s…you didn’t…” Martin sighed and shook his head, collecting their mugs as he rose from the table as well. “You’re fine, Oliver, really. Much better company than the others, at least.”

“Not sure if that’s much of a compliment but I’ll take it.” Oliver held out a hand and after a moment Martin reached out and shook it. “I’ll be sure to update Jon if I see him again before he wakes up.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Martin had ended up reading another statement after Oliver’s visit so the next night he decided instead to read aloud poetry to Jon, something he felt he could only get away with while Jon wasn’t awake to ridicule each line. He was absentmindedly running the fingers of one hand through Jon’s hair, gently untangling the long strands of gray and black as he murmured in a calm and melodic voice. The floating eyes hovered around him and Jon, swaying in time with the dips and surges in his recitation.

“ _Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, and feed deep, deep upon her peerless_ -”

“The Stranger is a better poet than Keats, I’m not afraid to say it.”

Martin froze, the book of poems dropping to his lap as his fingers grew slack. The room fell silent and the spectral eyes went still, hanging in the air as if they were awaiting command to move again.

Martin stared at the wall across from him. Had he just been hearing things? There had been moments before when he’d wake up in the middle of the night, still half asleep and caught somewhere between his dreams and reality, and hear Jon’s voice like the whisper of a ghost. There was a simple way to confirm if the voice was real or not. Martin only needed to look down and be reminded that Jon was still asleep, that he still didn’t have him back.

He just needed to look down.

Look down.

Look _down._

_L o o k._

A pair of wide-open eyes peered back at him, tinged with a luminescent green and filled with the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes. The eyes blinked, opening again to reveal soft brown irises and the knowledge of just one man who had lived just one life. Jon’s expression was indecipherable, a muddled mess of curious and detached and confused and enlightened.

“ _Jon?_ ” Martin’s voice cracked. “Jon, are you…”

“ _Martin_.”

Jon’s own broken voice, rough from lack of use, was Martin’s only warning before Jon was clambering up onto his lap with a surprising degree of speed for someone who had just been asleep for nearly half a month. Jon wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck, pulling him close and locking them together in a desperate embrace.

“J-Jon, be careful! You’ll reopen your wounds if you-”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered. “I’m _so sorry_.”

“Don’t…”

Don’t what? Don’t _apologize_?

Martin was not so selfless of a man that he’d not accept at least one or two apologies for what Jon had put him through. Jon had been self-sacrificial again and Jon had left him _alone_ again and Jon had…

They had both done stupid things that deserved apology after apology, an endless cycle of requests for forgiveness tinged with the understanding that another stupid thing would surely be done in the near future. It probably wasn’t the healthiest cycle but they didn’t exactly face the same circumstances as most other couples.

So instead Martin held Jon tight as the smaller man began to shake, silent tears dampening the collar of his jumper where Jon had his face tucked into the curve of his throat. He held him close and ignored the lack of a heartbeat coming from the chest pressed close against his own.

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know how long it takes water to boil and I know I misrepresent that here but I honestly don't care enough


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Magnus Archives sure is a podcast, huh?
> 
> This is just gonna end up being the fic where I keep all the Avatars that Jonny wants to take away from us.
> 
> Also I totally fucking jinxed myself with the "maybe I can do weekly updates" comment oooops but I work in a covid test processing lab and we've been fucking slammed my dudes so apologies. Thank you as always for the kudos and comments and support!

“ _Hey._ ” Martin’s voice was soft, a pleased sound passing from his lips when Jon finally padded his way into the small kitchen area. He had his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea and looked so delighted by the simple sight of seeing Jon up and walking about. “Good morning.”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Jon pointed out, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t looked at a clock even once between waking up to an empty bed and wandering out in search of Martin.

“So, do you _not_ want the eggs and bacon that I’ve so lovingly made for you then?” Martin asked.

Jon glanced over at the kitchen table to see a plate covered in foil. Lifting it revealed two fried eggs and a few rashers of lean bacon. In the same moment, the toaster popped out a couple slices of toast and Martin brought them over to set down next to half-full jar of peach preserves.

Everything smelled delicious.

He wasn’t hungry.

“It could be three in the _morning_ and I’d still eat anything lovingly made by you,” Jon swore as he took a seat at the table, joined only a moment later by Martin.

“Can I…” Martin set down his tea and reached out hesitantly. Jon immediately moved closer towards him, offering his hands and arms and anything and everything. “How are the uh…how’s it all feel today?” Martin carefully traced around some of the larger gashes covering his forearm, his fingers brushing over the raised edges. They were still a bit red but significantly more healed than they would be for someone who wasn’t Jon. “They look less…irritated lately. That’s good at least.”

From a quick glance it would have seemed like Martin was putting on an optimistic front but Jon did not need the blessings of the Watcher to know how bothered he truly was. The eyes that had been carved into him were now an inescapable reminder of the role he played. He knew that Martin was particularly not fond of the smaller ones strung around his throat.

They reminded him far too much of a collar.

His face was devoid of the scars that now decorated every other inch of him, a small allowance that Jon was thankful for. It wasn’t that he was a vain man. He had already collected so many scars before that adding more mattered very little to him. But Martin already put up with so much when it came to Jon and not having to stare at a hodgepodge of eyes every time he looked at Jon’s face was a fate he was glad Martin could be spared from.

An outsider may wonder why his face had not been touched by the carnage of his branding but they’d be mistaken in their assumption. There were still eyes there, buried just beneath the surface. He knew that they opened, just as the scars did, while he traversed the dreams of those who had fed their statements to the Beholding. He had a feeling that, with enough emotion, they would open outside of the dreams as well.

“I don’t think they could have gotten infected, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jon assured him, tilting his head as a thought was gently nudged into his mind. “No, they wouldn’t have gotten infected. That’d feed the Corruption too much.”

“I feel like all of this is feeding the Flesh a bit, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” Jon mused as picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. He could still enjoy the taste at least. “Then again, the effect was more important than the process.”

Martin made a sound, something caught between a thoughtful hum and a distressed whine. Jon waited for him to speak, to make the choice to voice his thoughts rather than search his mind for that which went unsaid. The Eye was displeased that its Archivist was refusing to seek out information but the favor it held for Martin was enough to keep the irritation at bay.

“Well, couldn’t you…I mean I’m not saying you _should_ , but what if you just-”

“Scratched them all out?”

Martin made a sound again, this one leaning more towards distressed.

“It wanted you permanently bound to it, yeah?” Martin reasoned, though it was clear he hated the words coming out of his mouth. “That had to be the point of these. It wouldn’t be pleasant to undo but I don’t see how this is _absolutely_ permanent if you can get rid of-”

“That wouldn’t get rid of all of them,” Jon corrected and Martin nodded in agreement.

“Right, it would leave your actual-”

“They’re on my bones too.”

Silence fell between them. Martin blinked and Jon took a bite of toast.

“They’re _what?_ ”

Jon sighed and dropped the toast as he reluctantly pulled his other arm from Martin’s steadily tightening grasp. He held up his hands, turning them to view every angle. The eyes varied in size and placement to cover his skin, even invading the hand shaped burn that wrapped around his palm. It was almost like the Beholding wished to erase the evidence of every other Entity, for there to be no doubt over who Jon belonged to.

“They’re carved into my bones. I can _feel_ them,” Jon whispered. “We could get an x-ray to confirm it but I…I _know_ that they’re there.”

“Oh, _Jon_.”

“I asked for this, Martin,” Jon reminded him.

“But you didn’t,” Martin argued back, gesturing his hands towards the multitude of healing lacerations. “Not for _this_. You just wanted to fix things and this was the _price_.”

“I didn’t die, kept that promise at least. And now I can’t die at _all_ so…” Jon chuckled, an empty and broken noise that fell flat when it received nothing in return but silence from Martin. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t…” Martin cut himself off and sighed. “It’s okay, Jon.” Martin reached out, slow to allow Jon the option to pull away, and took back his scarred hands to hold within his own. “I love you. I’m happy that I still have the ability to say that to your face.”

Jon smiled, savoring the warmth that spread through him in a way that was so extraordinarily human.

“I love you too.”

“Would you be feeling up to a visit from Georgie?” Martin asked as he released one of Jon’s hands to pick up his tea. “She’s been dying to see you since she heard you woke up. Daisy and Basira too but I think that’s more because they want to check…”

“If I’ve transformed into an eldritch monstrosity?” Jon guessed and Martin hummed.

“They care in their own way.”

“Hm.” Jon picked up his fork with his own free hand and pushed around the eggs on his plate. He cut away a piece to eat so Martin wouldn’t worry. “Can we…just invite Georgie for now? I wouldn’t mind seeing her.”

“She’d probably bring along Melanie, if that’s alright.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Jon said, his mouth twisting up into a wry smile. “Just ask Melanie if she wouldn’t mind waiting to throttle me _after_ these have healed a bit more.”

“She came by when you were asleep, you know,” Martin told him. “Even left her in the room alone with you for a moment. She was very well behaved.”

Jon knew they had visited. It was between Avatar visits and Martin had just finished a statement when Georgie arrived, filled with a strange mixture of rage and concern. Melanie was close behind, towed along by Georgie’s arm linked with hers while she clutched a white cane close to her chest. Martin had been defensive at first, welcoming them while simultaneously making sure they were allowed nowhere near Jon until he knew their true motives.

In the end, they were really only there for answers. Basira had called to update them on the situation, but they wanted more details. Martin had shown them Jon, Georgie had described the scene for Melanie, and then Georgie had dragged Martin away from Jon’s side to talk which left Melanie alone with him.

The spectral eyes had buzzed, static ominously filling the air in a threatening bid to deter anyone from harming their Archivist. Melanie had merely laughed as she heard the noise and made jokes, speaking quietly in a one-sided conversation about how Jon was a greedy man for having so many eyes and that he should really leave some for the rest of them.

By the time Georgie and Martin had returned, the eyes had settled and Melanie was poorly braiding sections of Jon’s hair while she told him old ghost hunting stories.

“It’d be nice to see them,” Jon murmured, smiling softly at the memory.

“I’ll give Georgie a call then,” Martin decided. He reached for where his phone rested on the table but pulled back when a luminescent eye suddenly blinked into existence above it. “Oh! I uh…h-hello there?” Martin glanced between the eye and Jon. “I still don’t understand what these things are. Are they _bad?_ ”

“No, they’re not…they’re a bit like pets I suppose…o-or tools?” Jon tried to explain as more of the eyes appeared around him. “They’re sort of like Annabelle’s spiders or Jane Prentiss’s worms. They’re not exactly _mine_ but…they’re like an extension of me but also of the Eye?”

“Got it,” Martin said with a slight nod of his head. “So does the Eye not… _trust me_ or is there another issue I don’t know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just that these…little guys tend to st-stare at me? They even pop up when you’re in another room.” As if to prove a point one of the eyes hovered closer, forcing Martin to go slightly cross-eyed as it floated near his face. “Is it because the Eye is protective of its Archivist and doesn’t like other people being near you? I know I’m technically a servant too but I was aligned with the Lonely for a bit there so maybe…”

Martin trailed off as Jon frowned. To say that these eyes were extensions of himself wasn’t all that inaccurate. He knew how they felt because it was how the Eye, and by extension the Archivist, felt. He had always been aware of when their protective hostility peaked and not once had it ever registered around Martin. Jon cycled through everything the eyes had observed for him while he was asleep and found no such instance so why would he…

“Oh… _oh_ , that’s not… _heh_.” Jon chuckled as he realized what Martin had been seeing. “They’re not watching you because they’re _distrustful_. The Eye views you as my…my Anchor. You’re what keeps its Archivist stable and content.” He enunciated the consonants in his words, the eyes swaying with his intonation, and gave Martin a shy smile. “The Eye is fond of you so I think it’s just watching over you. They also seem to follow my desires and I… _do_ like to look at you so they just…”

“O-oh.” Jon watched as realization slowly dawned on Martin’s face. The curve of the spectral eyes could be interpreted as almost critical with their narrowed stare, but with a new perspective, one might call the gaze affectionate. “Daisy and Annabelle called me your Anchor but I didn’t think I was actually…”

“I’m sorry if that’s weird.” A few of the eyes were dancing around Martin’s head and Jon focused his thoughts on calling them back towards him, an order they seemed to reluctantly follow after a moment. “I’m working on controlling them.”

“No, no it’s fine.” Martin’s acceptance apparently overrode any control Jon could manage as the eyes immediately hovered back towards him. Martin smiled as they swayed around his head, content to watch over the beloved of their Archivist. “I’m okay with it. Although, speaking of eyes that may or may not be bad, have you figured out what we’re going to do with…”

Martin trailed off again and stood from the table. Jon stood and followed after him into the living room to where a box of statements sat on the coffee table. Martin lifted the lid from the box and pushed aside some of the files to reveal a jar tucked into one of the corners. Its contents were concealed by the swath of fabric wrapped around it but Jon knew what rested inside. He picked up the jar and began unwrapping it.

“The Eye doesn’t want them destroyed. That would be…sacrilegious in a sense,” He explained as he peered inside at the ethereal green shade of Jonah’s irises, still strangely bright for something no longer connected to a living host. “I say we put them in a box and leave it in a drawer somewhere.”

“Where? Right next to your jar of ashes and rib bone?” Martin questioned with a huff of laughter. “Are they still…active? Like if someone were to find them and, for whatever reason, stick them in another body would it-”

“It could bring Jonah back,” Jon confirmed, a twinge of foreign irritation lacing his thoughts as the Watcher expressed its displeasure with the possibility. “Not quite sure how long he’d get to stick around in a new vessel given how much he pissed off the Beholding but…”

“We could give them to Helen.”

“ _What?_ ”

“All the Entities are more or less in favor of trying to keep things balanced now, right?” Martin argued as Jon stared at him in disbelief, his hands tightening slightly around the jar as if Helen would suddenly appear and snatch it away. “It could be like…a gesture of good will. Trusting another Avatar with one of our…artefacts?”

“Helen’s hallways would _digest them_.”

“Not if I didn’t _want_ them to, Archivist.”

Jon let out an exhausted whine, not bothering to turn and address the creak of a door coming from the wall behind them. Martin looked over Jon’s shoulder, likely at their new guest, before looking back at the resigned fatigue that was settling in Jon’s features at the prospect of having to interact with Helen.

“O-oh, Helen, now’s not really…it’s not the best time for a visit,” Martin told her.

“It’s fine,” Jon assured as he took a seat on the couch and finally looked over at the Distortion, still lingering in the threshold of her door with a pleased grin twisting her features. “Could you, um…could you phone Georgie and maybe make some tea?”

“Are you sure?”

“I won’t hurt him, Martin.” Helen promised as she walked further into the room and held three long fingers in the air in a mock salute of honor. “Just a nice little chat between Avatars, yes?”

Martin rolled his eyes, clearly tired of being left out of the _Avatars Only_ club meetings, but sighed and retreated to the kitchen anyway.

“It’s easier to look at you now,” Jon told her as the Beholding fed him a comprehension of fractals that would cause a normal mind to break.

“Hm, can’t really say I like _that_ ,” Helen confessed. “But I suppose you’re on a different level now that you’ve properly embraced your role.” She took a seat in the armchair, the same place she had sat during her previous visit. “Tell me, have you been eating properly? That’s very important, you know. Need to keep your patron _satisfied_.”

There was a clatter in the kitchen, the sound of mugs and dishes unceremoniously clinking together like someone had fumbled them. Jon knew Martin was listening to their conversation and was just reacting to the comment on eating.

When Jon had finally woken up the night before and settled after some crying and tripped over apologies, Martin had asked how he felt. Jon had been honest and told him he felt fine enough though he was just a bit…hungry. Martin had gotten a strange look on his face from that response and Jon was quick to take it back and explain it away as human hunger or just a strange feeling in his gut, anything to avoid seeing that look of wary disappointment he had always received from Basira and the others.

Instead Martin stood and softly suggested that they go for a walk to help Jon stretch his legs a bit. Jon had agreed but as they began walking the empty, late-night streets he realized that they had never chosen a set route and that Martin seemed to be following Jon’s lead. It wasn’t until Jon felt himself being pulled towards a small café a few blocks away that he realized what was happening.

Martin was letting him hunt.

The café was fairly empty, normal considering the hour, and housed only the barista on staff and a couple of customers who sipped on their drinks while reading or doing work on their laptops. Jon approached one of them, a young woman named Stephanie who was doing work on her laptop and had the red rimmed eyes of someone who had been crying for quite a long time. He sat down across from her while Martin ordered them drinks and asked her what she was studying.

She told him, without hesitation and with only an initial hint of confusion, that she was pursuing a degree in marine biology at Queen Mary University of London. She had always loved the mysteries and unknowns of the ocean and often went scuba diving with her classmate Adrian. On a recent trip he had told her he’d found a new diving spot rumored to have dropped cargo sitting at the bottom. It required them to go deeper than they ever had before and she was worried but he assured her it would be worth it.

It gets so dark down in the water.

They were supposed to stick together but Adrian was too excited and swam far ahead of her. Stephanie tried to keep up, tried to keep him in her line of sight, but then her dive light flickered out for just a moment. By the time she had managed to get it to work again, she’d lost sight of Adrian. She searched for as long as she could but her oxygen tank was running low and she still hadn’t reached the bottom and shouldn’t she have reached the bottom by now? It was meant to be deep but not this deep. She had to resurface and her last bit of optimism was wasted when she saw that Adrian hadn’t risen up like she had hoped.

The search parties still hadn’t found him and the police had recently expressed their halfhearted condolences to her, an unspoken sign that they’d no longer be actively looking. Martin came over with their drinks, purposefully ordered in to-go cups, and Jon told Stephanie he was sorry for her loss and that he hoped she’d keep her love for the ocean’s vast unknown despite what it had taken from her.

Martin had said nothing about it as he and Jon returned to his flat, only commenting on how the café made lovely hot chocolate and that they should visit again soon.

“The Eye is quite content,” Jon answered simply.

“Oh _good_. Just thought I’d check in and make sure since we’re all meant to be playing _nice_ now.” Helen smiled, clearly amused by how Martin had reacted. “Have any of the others paid a visit or am I the first?”

“Since I’ve woken up? You’d be the first,” Jon shared. “I did see Oliver while I was still asleep. We crossed paths in a dream.” He leveled a heavy-lidded stare in her direction, settling with a look of disapproval in anticipation of the coming conversation. “Apparently Martin fielded a few visits as well.”

It was clear that he was talking about her visit in particular and the spectral eyes that floated around him all paused in their movements to direct their attention towards her. Helen smiled, playful and unapologetic.

“Just needed to remind him of some things.”

“You fed on him.”

Jon’s voice dipped low, an edge of hostility that aired more on the side of imposing than petulant. There was confidence in its delivery, a way of saying that there was no argument to be made and no defense that would suffice. She had been caught. He had seen it.

“He did that to himself.”

She argued anyway, though there was the flicker of something in her eyes, the ghost of something in her voice. She smiled, bright and distracting, but it was a façade. It was a waver, an uncertainty. Jon remained silent and watched as she grew less and less sure of the words that had left her, of the actions she had taken while he was not around to prevent them.

He watched and fed, just as she had fed on someone who she had no right to touch, and took from her just a fraction of what she would owe over time for such a transgression.

“Oliver and Annabelle visited as well,” Jon added, voice now cheery as he finally broke the silence and noted with amusement how Helen seemed to almost unravel with relief at being released from his hold.

“We Avatars are a _social_ bunch, aren’t we?” Helen said with an uneven chuckle as she clapped her hands together. “We should all meet up for a drink one of these days, don’t you think? Get together to talk about _balance_ and all that.”

“You don’t seem to like the idea of things being balanced.”

“I understand the necessity of it, dear Archivist, but I don’t much care for the concept.” She shrugged, the material of her manifested blazer shifting like skin over her pointed shoulders. “It’s in the nature of the Spiral to create confusion and instability. The idea of balance makes my bones itch, though I suppose I’ll just need to get used to it.”

“There’s something else, isn’t there,” Jon observed.

“Oh? Does the all-knowing Archivist need me to tell him something?”

“I was trying to be polite,” He told her, voice shifting ever so slightly back into that darker tone. “It may be easier to look _at_ you but I’m trying my best not to look _in_ you.”

Helen was quiet for a moment, a blessed rarity.

“I liked the Changed world,” She finally confessed “It could have been so much fun…for all of us!”

“All of us?” Jon repeated with a raised brow.

“The ones who mattered at least,” Helen reasoned. Jon knew she was only talking about other Avatars like them. Perhaps she also included Martin in that circle given his proximity to Jon and the protection that afforded him but she certainly wasn’t considering the other humans Jon still cared for. “But then you had to go and reverse it. I’m just a bit sour about it, you know?”

Jon could not see the future nor what the future could have been had things gone differently, but he could still see the disappointment that lingered in Helen’s eyes and knew how dangerous she could have been if they’d hesitated. The Spiral kept her in line now, made her play nice and accept the situation, but it was a questionable truce that Jon decided was best kept at arm’s length.

“Well…perhaps a gift will make you feel a bit better about things.”

“ _Oh?_ ” Helen perked up, delighted by the offer. “I only caught the end of that conversation you were having with Martin. I promise I won’t let my corridors digest a gift.”

Helen held out her hands and curled in her fingers in a repeated gesture like a child asking to be given sweets, though with the length and angle of her joints, the motion only served to be unnerving. Jon picked up the jar from where he had tucked it beside him on the couch and handed it over.

“Good, because the Eye would very much like these to remain intact.”

Helen held up the jar, studying the contents within with the keen eye of the ghost of a realtor. Jonah’s eyes stared back, active yet inert. They were still able to observe, to watch and to experience, just as the Eye desired. Being kept in Helen’s hallways, endlessly subjected to the madness of the Distortion with no choice but to behold, would be a fitting prison.

“The Boneturner probably would have appreciated these a bit more but I’ll accept them nonetheless.” Helen wrapped her fingers around the jar, tapping at the glass. “ _Very_ spooky.”

“Oh! You gave them to her then?” Martin noted as he came back into the living room and handed Jon a cup of tea.

“I’ll keep them very safe,” Helen promised. “Would you like a gift from me in return?”

“No,” Jon replied firmly, not wishing to see what non-Euclidian monstrosity she would consider a gift.

“ _Good answer_ ,” Helen commended as she stood from the armchair, subtly ducking away from the eyes that hovered near where she drew too close to Jon. “I should get going. Not really a big fan of how much I’m being _looked at_ right now but I’ll adjust.” Her door creaked open and she paused in its threshold, tossing a wink over her shoulder. “I’ll be _seeing_ you, Archivist.”

“Was that meant to be an eye joke?” Martin questioned.

“Don’t smile,” Jon warned as echoed laughter filtered through the closing yellow door. “It will only encourage her.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE GHOST GIRLFRIENDS ARE BACK (and I want to join their cult)
> 
> Also, the whole popularity contest for the Eye thing that's happening in canon is really making me feel valid about this story that I'm writing. The Ceasless Watcher needs to pick a favorite kid and Jon's def a special little boy

When Georgie entered Martin’s flat, she made sure that her expression was already set to a look of stern disappointment. She was trying her best to make her anger and frustrations clear and she had prepared herself in advance to give Jon a proper lecture once he woke up. However, as soon as she stepped in the living room and they locked eyes, Georgie’s expression softened almost immediately.

Jon made for a pitiful sight, bundled up on the couch in an oversized jumper and a mug clutched in his bony hands. When Georgie had seen him before during their first visit, the injuries and frailty were much the same but he had been _asleep_ then. She wasn’t sure why she had ever thought that waking up would improve things for him, but to see him awake and moving yet still so broken was just…

He looked small...small and hurt and Georgie hated it.

Jon had never had the most imposing silhouette, not back in Uni and certainly not while he was on the run from the Institute and hiding away in her flat. None of it was helped by an apocalypse that was immediately followed by a supernatural coma. Melanie had explained to her that old written statements were the bare minimum as far as nourishment went for him and last she checked, that was all Martin could give him while he was unconscious.

This was all Georgie’s first impression and this was what made her stop in her tracks and let out a quiet whine. Melanie was tucked against her side and Martin was coming up behind them after closing the front door. Jon’s head had perked up when she entered and the smile on his face, though tired, was bright and excited enough to rally her forward.

“Jon,” She called out, her voice kept soft as if a louder tone would scare him away. Melanie let go of her arm, a silent indication that she was fine hanging back, and Georgie took a few steps in his direction. She held out her hands, hesitant and careful. The spectral eyes that floated lazily around his head had no reaction beyond an acknowledging hum of static. “Is it...is it okay to touch you? I’m sure those must sting if you touch them-”

She broke off as Jon quickly placed his mug down on the coffee table and reached out to her with a level of speed and energy she had rarely ever seen in the weary man. He may have looked frail on the outside but that had been only surface level. Something had changed underneath.

“Georgie,” Jon murmured, hugging her with a surprising bit of strength. “ _I’m sorry_.”

“What are you apologizing for, you loon?” Georgie questioned as she returned the embrace and joined him on the couch.

“He _did_ start the apocalypse.”

Georgie pulled away slightly to whip her head around and stare at Melanie. Her girlfriend stood where she had left her, Martin hovering by her side and likely prepared to assist if she needed it. Melanie wore a proud grin on her face, one that was more teasing than malicious, and seemed very much unapologetic.

“ _Melanie_ ,” Georgie chided.

“What?”

“He fixed it” Georgie argued, turning her head back around to look at Jon. “You fixed it.”

“But I still put everyone through it,” Jon acknowledged with a sigh. “And now we’re back to where we started and sure, there’s no imminent danger of another ritual happening but...everything we gave up leading up to that point is still-”

Jon was interrupted by a sharp tapping sound, insistent and disruptive. All eyes in the room focused on Melanie as she slammed the end of her cane down on the floor once more, a final call to order and command that she be listened to. She held her cane slightly above the ground in warning and paused to make sure the room had fallen silent.

“If you’re talking about my eyes then I’m going to stop you right there,” She said, holding out her cane to point in the vague direction that Jon’s voice had come from. “You’re not allowed to use _my_ trauma to fuel _your_ pity party.” She lowered her cane and offered her arm. “Where is he? Bring me to him.”

Martin first looked to Georgie for approval before he gently guided Melanie over, kicking a filing box to the side and offering quiet directions for avoiding the coffee table along the way. She sat down on the couch, shifting to angle her body towards the dip of weight she could only presume was Jon. The spectral eyes changed formation to focus on Melanie, circling around her in slow cycles before returning to Jon’s side.

“Hello,” Jon hesitantly greeted, though he fell silent when Melanie slowly reached up with both of her hands to cradle his face.

Georgie watched as Jon let out a small breath but allowed Melanie to touch him. A glance at Martin showed he was holding enough tense energy for everyone in the room, the glint of protectiveness in his eyes making it clear that he’d be moving the moment Jon made any sort of indication that he was uncomfortable.

“Hm…just as I thought,” Melanie said after a few moments. She dropped her hands to her lap and Jon peered at her curiously as she flashed him a grin. “You look like shit.” Jon’s eyes widened and a shocked snort of laughter escaped his lips. “What are we going to do with you, Sims?”

Georgie sighed and fondly shook her head while Jon’s surprised chuckle morphed into proper giggles. Martin had calmed significantly once he heard Jon’s laughter and Georgie stood to join him in his observation point in the middle of the room, leaving Jon and Melanie to occupy the couch.

“Lock me away in my archives,” Jon suggested with a wry smile. “That’ll keep me out of trouble.”

“Putting you in the archives was how all of this started,” Martin noted before he silently pointed at the mug of tea Jon had placed down and looked questioningly at Georgie.

“Are you going back then?” Georgie asked after giving Martin an appreciative nod and watched him disappear into the kitchen area. “Back to the institute?”

“ _I_ need to,” Jon claimed. “Apparently Basira and Daisy have checked in and said they’re still operating as normally as they can considering both Jo-…Elias and Peter are gone so there’s no Head of the institute right now. I own it but that doesn’t mean-”

“Hold one, you own what?” Melanie interrupted.

“The institute,” Jon replied in such a matter-of-fact tone that Georgie had to wonder if she heard him right.

The three of them fell silent and Georgie turned to look towards the direction of the kitchen area where Martin had popped his head back into the room, a box of Earl Grey clutched in his hands. She shot him a questioning look but received only a shrug in response.

“Don’t look at me,” Martin told her with a shake of his head. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Well, it can’t really be _owned_ considering its status as a non-profit research organization but if you have all the right pieces of information…” Jon went on to explain with a pondering tilt of his head. “Account numbers, passwords, locations of official documentation, agreements made both officially and unofficially with government officials and donors and affiliated parties, the knowledge of how to forge any signature.” He narrowed his eyes, expression shifting to something more pensive as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I basically have access to all of Elias’s money now.”

“Did Elias have a lot of money?” Georgie asked.

“He had a lot of _other people’s_ money,” Jon clarified. “Not to mention some very _convenient_ stock investments. The institute was built to be fairly self-sufficient, even if there’s a temporary lack of leadership. It’ll be able to run for some time but eventually it’ll need someone who knows how things work to step up.” He nodded towards the filing box on the floor. “They’re still taking statements so the archives can’t stay closed for very long anyway.”

“Apparently they’ve gotten an uptick in reports,” Martin shared as he returned with a cup of tea for Georgie. She accepted it with a smile that only grew when she noticed he had brought another cup, filled to a slightly lower level so it wouldn’t easily spill, which he handed over to Melanie after he approached her with a soft touch to her shoulder. “Annabelle said the apocalypse left a lot of people with dreams they can’t explain. People seem to…notice a lot more now too.”

“Well, the Eye needed to leave _some_ residual mark on the world even after it was put back together,” Jon reasoned.

“Do you really need to go back?” Georgie asked. “Can’t you just pass along the information and tell them to hire a new archivist?”

“I need the archives. I need the statements the institute receives,” Jon argued as he shook his head. “I need to feed my patron or my patron feeds on _me_.”

“W-well, that’s not fair, is it?” Georgie argued back with a wave of her hand. She had only recently been thrown into all of the Entity drama that Jon and Melanie and the rest had been dealing with, but even she could tell that the situation wasn’t the fairest. “It already did…whatever _this_ is to you. Aren’t you a little more important than just another servant now?”

“I _am_ more important. I’m an Avatar of the Eye, its…perfect Archivist, but that doesn’t mean I can just use the power it’s granted me and pay nothing in return.” He shrugged, upsettingly nonchalant while discussing the subject of his fate. “The Eye views me as a chef views their favorite knife. I am cherished, I am favored, but I am ultimately still just a tool.”

“What do you even get out of the all of this?” Melanie questioned.

“The Change was reversed, for one,” Jon noted, his nose scrunching as he compiled the list of benefits. “Relative safety for the people I care about, the ability to Know and See so much more than before…I can’t really… _die_ now, not the way normal people do.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Think about it. I’m no longer a _who_ , I’m a _what_ ,” Jon reasoned. “I _am_ the archives. You can’t stab or shoot or bludgeon a catalogue of information.”

“You can burn it.”

“ _Melanie_.”

Georgie’s scolding was lost under another round of laughter, though she couldn’t complain considering the laughter was coming from both Melanie _and_ Jon.

“And here I thought you were with the Slaughter, not the Desolation,” Jon teased.

“I’m with _none of them_ , Jonny boy,” Melanie shot back, gesturing a hand in the direction of Georgie’s voice. “The only one I’m with is the fearless beauty over there.”

The spirited joy in Jon and Melanie’s faces filled Georgie’s chest with a pleasant warmth, though she found herself unable to share in their enjoyment. Her mind kept snagging on the words Jon had been using, the way he had been describing himself.

“I don’t like that,” Georgie remarked as their laughter petered out. “You calling yourself a _what_ and a _tool_. You’re not an object, Jon.”

Martin had remained relatively silent so far but Georgie’s words drew a hum of agreement from him. He looked at Jon with a tired pain in his gaze and some of the spectral eyes floated over to him, dancing about in what seemed to be some strange attempt at comfort or cheer. Jon sighed and reached out a hand for Martin to take, his own method of comfort.

“I-I know that, I just…there needs to be an understanding here,” Jon claimed as Martin squeezed his hand and let go, a silent acceptance. “We are well past the point of no return. Turning me back into what I once was is no longer an option.” He shook his head and cast a glance at Melanie, his expression already conveying the shame one would see in the face of a scolded child. “Trying to ignore my patron or avoid taking statements… _that_ would be something that kills me.”

Georgie couldn’t quite tell why Jon suddenly looked almost scared of Melanie…no, not scared of her. It was more like he was tensed in anticipation of something she might do. Georgie still hadn’t heard every story of Jon and Melanie’s interactions in the archives but she knew he had done things Melanie thoroughly disapproved of. Jon liked to pretend that the opinions of others didn’t hurt him but for as long as Georgie had known him, he’d always aimed to please and impress on some subconscious level.

“Well that’s fine, isn’t it?” Melanie said after a moment.

“W-what?” Jon stuttered out, now more confused than worried.

“Not…not the being killed part,” Melanie clarified. “Look, I know I’m the blind one here but he doesn’t seem all that different to me.” Melanie reached out again to gently pat Jon’s cheek, a gesture that missed in its first attempt but landed once Jon redirected her hand. “Still a neurotic little academic who makes bad decisions and can’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.”

“You’re too kind,” Jon drawled.

“So _what_ if he needs to do the compulsion shit and take statements to survive?” Melanie threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. “He’s still the idiot we know and questionably love. He isn’t some _monster_.”

“You sang a very different tune before you left the institute,” Martin pointed out, his tone steely and firm in a way that left no room for denial.

Melanie fell quiet at that. Jon opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it and frowning. Georgie thought of saying something in Melanie’s defense but in truth, she didn’t have the full picture and she knew that Melanie was more than capable of standing her own ground.

“We did it so _wrong_ the first time around,” Melanie’s voice was soft and pained when she finally spoke and Jon’s eyes widened in response to it.

“What do you mean?” Georgie asked, still lacking context for the tense atmosphere that had settled in the room.

“With his statements,” Melanie clarified for her. “Before it was…it was like a drug addiction, yeah?” She reached out and searched for Jon’s hand to hold within her own. “So sure, we kept you in check and restricted your supply but…w-we _shamed_ you for it, we shamed you for something so far out of your control.”

“Melanie-”

“No!” Melanie cut Jon off with a shout. “It’s…it was so fucked and _now_ it’s…this isn’t just some addiction anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s _right_ ,” Jon argued.

“No, but a whole lot of things stopped being right a long time ago,” Melanie reasoned. “I mean _shit_ , you all wonder why the hell I blinded myself. I’m done with it all.”

“ _Are_ you done with it?” Jon asked, voice quiet as he cast his eyes down and squeezed Melanie’s hand. “Truly?”

“I said what I said, Jon,” She replied with a sigh. “If we invite you over for dinner, you check your Entities at the door. I’ll always welcome you as a friend but we’re not getting involved with all of this again. Obviously, we’ll help get you settled but beyond that…”

“No, no of course not. I’d never ask that of you, not now,” He quickly agreed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It would make me very happy to have you as just a friend.”

Melanie pursed her lips and scrunched her nose. Georgie recognized it as the face she made when trying hold back laughter over a joke that hadn’t been told yet.

“Wow, _just_ a friend?” Melanie repeated. “Does my offer of companionship mean that little to you?”

“ _Melanie_ ,” Jon murmured, his voice shaky as he caught on to the jest and attempted to hold back his own laughter.

“Oh, no I get it,” Melanie carried on with mock anger in her voice. “It’s because I’m blind, isn’t it. You _ableist piece of shit_ -”

“Melanie, _stop_.” Proper giggles were escaping Jon now as his face split with a wide grin.

“Here’s a snack for you, Mr. Archivist,” Melanie said as she leaned into him on the couch and nearly sent them both toppling off of it. “Statement of Melanie King regarding her very _rude_ friend.”

“I hate you,” Jon claimed as he leaned back into her to balance the weight.

“You love me,” Melanie countered. “Admit it.”

Jon hummed, remnant giggles escaping him every few moments. Georgie couldn’t imagine how he must have felt in that moment. After such a long chain of terrible events, for Jon to have something to laugh about while he sat surrounded by people who weren’t there to hurt him in an environment that he knew was safe must have been near unbelievable. Some of those terrible things were still happening and they’d undoubtedly face new terrible things in the future, but for now they deserved a moment of silliness.

Georgie was pulled from her thoughts as she felt Martin tense beside her. She instinctively looked to Jon to see if he was the cause and saw that his smile had fallen, replaced by an expression of discomfort. He began to squeeze his eyes shut and open them wide, repeating the deliberate blinks for a few moments before he frowned.

“Is something wrong?” Georgie asked and Jon’s frown deepened.

“I’m…my eyes are…”

“Which…ones?” Martin checked.

Jon didn’t respond and instead began tugging at the sleeves of his jumper, pulling the overspill of fabric up to expose his hands. He paused for a moment before pulling the sleeve an inch higher followed by another pause and an inch higher after that. Eventually he bunched them up completely to his elbows, exposing the eyes wrapping around his forearms. Some of the spectral eyes dropped from their positions by his head to hover above the cuts, as if to note their progress in healing.

“It’s…sort of like wearing a blindfold?” Jon tried to explain, suddenly appearing more self-conscious. “It doesn’t hurt but after a while it gets to be a bit uncomfortable to have them all covered.”

Melanie grinned as she finally caught on to what had happened. Georgie expected her to make a joke about not being able to see until Melanie began to slowly clap, chanting with every beat.

“Strip, strip, _strip, stri_ -”

“Stop that,” Jon ordered, the beginnings of a smile returning to his face.

“What? Martin agrees with me, right?”

“No comment,” Martin replied as he tried and failed to suppress a matching grin.

“ _Liar._ ”

“Door,” Jon suddenly blurted out.

“What?”

“Door,” Jon repeated. He was staring into the middle distance, gaze on nothing in particular. “Basira and Daisy.”

The room fell silent as they tried to process Jon’s words until a firm knocking at the door made everything finally click. Martin left to answer it and sure enough, the distance voices of Basira and Daisy filtered into the room. Georgie turned back to look at Jon whose gaze had become more focused once again.

“How-”

“Security cameras,” Jon murmured quietly, demeanor briefly settling into that same self-conscious state he had gotten from having to roll his sleeves up.

Before Georgie could comment further, Martin returned with Daisy and Basira. He already seemed even more on edge and Georgie would guess it was due to all of the people suddenly hovering around a newly awakened Jon. Basira was silent, expression neutral as she surveyed the room, while Daisy flashed them all a slightly awkward yet apologetic smile.

“We would have called ahead but-”

“Then we would’ve had time to hide all of the _spooky_ things I’ve been doing,” Jon guessed as Basira’s gaze snapped over to him. He placed a hand over his heart and held the other up in the air. “I swear I’ve been nothing but a law-abiding citizen, officers.”

“I think I liked him better when he was unconscious,” Basira muttered.

Georgie watched as Daisy took a step forward before swinging her weight back to return to where she was. Her gaze was locked on Jon and it was clear she wanted to move forward but was hesitant to actually do so. It wasn’t until Jon shifted on the couch, moving closer to Melanie to free up space for another person to sit on the other side of him, that she finally moved forward and joined him.

Melanie had told her stories about Daisy, about Basira, about the whole archive crew and the things they had gone through. Of course, there was too much to tell for Georgie to have gotten every detail and certain things had left a bad taste in Melanie’s mouth so they were never mentioned.

Georgie knew enough, however, to appreciate the irony of Jon being protectively flanked by two women who had left scars on his body.

“How’re you feeling?” Daisy asked him, voice surprisingly soft for such an imposing woman.

“Sated,” Jon replied and Daisy huffed out a breath of laughter. “You?”

“I’m fine,” She answered with a shrug.

Georgie could tell, even as a near stranger to her, that Daisy was not fine. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes and the bloodshot sclera and shadowed cheeks told the story of a poor sleep schedule and even shoddier diet. She should know, she had seen it enough times with Jon over the years. Based on Jon’s empathetic expression as he took in Daisy’s appearance, even he could see she wasn’t doing well.

“We’ll figure something out for you,” He said simply, a response that had Daisy’s eyes widening slightly.

“Gang’s all here then,” Melanie suddenly declared as she stood from the couch and tapped her cane on the ground. “Let’s get drunk.”

“W-what, no!” Martin stuttered out.

“You’re absolutely right,” Melanie agreed, pointing a finger in his direction. “We’re missing Helen. She’s really become a part of the crew.”

“I’m not sure getting drinks is a very good idea,” Martin reasoned. “Jon is still recovering-”

“I could go for a drink or two,” Jon shared, prompting a look of disbelief from Martin that made Basira chuckle. The spectral eyes hovering around Jon blinked out of existence one by one. “It’ll be fine, I can hide the eyes for a little while.”

“Daisy and I will stay sober and look after you idiots-”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind letting loose for a little bit as well,” Daisy confessed, cutting off Basira who stared at her with a look of disbelief that rivaled Martin’s.

“Well, well, _well_ ,” Melanie mused as she reached out a hand which Georgie took to pull her close. “Looks like the fear children learned how to have _fun_.”

“I’ll be a part of the _water only_ club with Basira,” Georgie offered as Basira and Martin shook away their surprise to compose themselves. “Martin?”

“A-are you sure you’ll be fine going out in a public space?” Martin checked. “It won’t be like the café. There’ll probably be lots of people…lots of things you’ll have to avoid _knowing_.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jon promised.

Georgie watched as Martin brow furrowed while he struggled to come up with an argument before he cast a look at Basira. She knew Basira to be the more rational and practical pillar of the group and Martin was likely hoping she’d help make his case. Basira was gazing at Jon, her expression unreadable as he stared back.

“What happened to that door in your head that blocks out the ocean,” Basira finally asked.

“More like an observation deck now,” Jon replied after a moment of consideration.

Basira was silent. Georgie had no idea what they were talking about with doors and oceans but when Basira sighed and gave a small nod, she knew Jon had given a satisfying answer.

“Okay.”

“ _Okay?_ ” Martin repeated, shocked that Basira was on board. “You’re fine with this? You’ve been the least trusting of all of this and now you’re just fine with it?”

“You can’t keep him locked away in a cushioned space forever, Martin,” Basira argued.

“I’m not keeping him locked away, I just-”

“Martin’s just protective,” Daisy reasoned. “It’s understandable.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“Bit of a Hunter’s instinct if you ask me,” She murmured with a smug grin. “Territorial and all that.”

“ _Don’t_ you start,” Martin ordered sternly. Daisy merely smiled back, her grin wide and sharp. “No recruitment.”

“The blood calls for what it calls for.” Daisy stood from the couch and began to make her way towards the door, clapping a firm hand on Martin’s shoulder as she passed. “And right now, it calls for a pint. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wrote a short little [tma fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745396) inspired by @frankensigh about Michale finding Gertrude after she was shot, go check it out!

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive crticism is always welcome!


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